


A Study in Colour

by oleanderhoney



Series: The Colour of Light [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst and Humor, Canon divergence (a little), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, girl!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which John Watson is in fact, Jane Watson. An in depth redeux of ASiP based on the dynamic between the enigmatic Consulting Detective, and his ex-Army Doctor, and what would transpire between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flatshares

**Author's Note:**

> Yes so genderswapping territory. I was looking for some stories in this trope, and I felt like there was just something missing, so I wanted to try my hand. I will warn you this first installment is pretty close to the actual episode, so if it becomes tedious to read I apologise. In later parts I will begin to diverge more and more in order to keep up with my characters' story arcs. Thanks for reading, and as always feed back is marvellous.
> 
> Oh yes and there will be a few minor characters that I end up swapping as well. But it's mostly Jane.
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock and the Characters from the BBC. Just the plot bunny.
> 
> Ps Unbeta-ed

* * *

“Please, call me Martin,” Doctor Ella says with an easy smile. He looks up at her through his fringe, his eyes twinkling. “You’ve been coming to me for over a month now, and I think we’re on first name terms.”

“No I prefer Doctor Ella, thanks. More professional,” Jane says, clenching her left hand attempting to cut off the traitorous tremor. His smile widens, but it neglects to reach his eyes this time.

“Has there been any change?” Doctor Ella asks, the same as he always does. Jane tries to remember.

“I think I saw the red of an apple the other day,” she says frowning. “But I can’t remember if I did, or if it’s just because I know what colour apples are.”

“Don’t worry about it. Your vision will go back to normal once you let these sessions do their job,” he says, but not unkindly. She still fumes at this, however, and he decides to change the subject.

“So last week you were saying something about a bit of therapy you’ve had in the past?”

“Well it was just a few sessions at the VA hospital before I was discharged. Walking me through coping skills, and all that…” she trails off her eyes narrowing as he begins to scribble on his notepad.

“And how’s that working for you?” Doctor Ella says with a hint of cheek. Her eyes snap up to his. “You’re reading my writing upside down again aren’t you?”

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues.’”

He huffs a laugh, and sets down his pen. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

“What that diary thing? Yeah I suppose…”

“You haven’t written a word, have you?” he smirks.

“No. It’s a bit of a bother what with my hand and all. Concentrated and repetitive motions are hard to sustain for too long,” she replies like a text book entry on nerve damage. It keeps the bitterness at bay.

“Ah yes. Like holding a pen or a scalpel, correct?”

Jane gives a pained smile, smoothing her hand over the top of her hair that was pulled back into a neat bun. “Yes. Hence why I am a retired surgeon as well as a soldier. Guns and surgical tools; accuracy’s apparently important for such things,” she says dryly and glances at the clock anxious to leave already.

“All right then. How about a blog? Typing would be easier.” Jane looks at him sceptically. “Jane, you’re a soldier and it’s going to take you a while to adjust to being back in the real world. I think writing about your daily life, and what happens to you will honestly help.”

“What, you mean like the groceries I picked up at Tesco’s, or how long the line was at the bank where I cash my pension check?” she snorts. “ _Nothing_ happens to me.”

“Trust me,” Doctor Ella says, his grin almost Cheshire-like. She answers with a leveling glare. “No really. Here stand up,” he says getting to his feet. Jane complies warily, but his open and eager face is what eventually causes her to go along with him.

“All right. What’s this about?”

“It’s an exercise in trust,” he says, his expression self-assured. He’s a cocky one, she can tell; still young and not weighted down by convention, but maybe a little new-age is good now and again. “Close your eyes.”

Raising her chin slightly, she obeys even if it’s only to avoid being contrary. “What, you want me to fall back or something?”

“No nothing like that,” Doctor Ella’s voice suddenly sounds in her ear very close, and it makes her jump. Without really thinking about it, her senses go on high alert, tracking his every move with her hearing alone. She tries her hardest not to tense when she feels his hands settle on her shoulders from behind. “We can’t make any headway if you don’t learn to trust me, Jane.”

“I do trust you,” she says lamely.

“You don’t trust anybody, Jane. My guess would be you haven’t for quite some time, now.” He brushes his thumbs back and forth over the crests of her shoulders. She forces her breathing to remain steady. “You know you should get out there more. Find people your age to be around that aren’t old Army mates. It’ll help ease the reintegration process of civilian life…”

He suddenly pulls the hair pins out of her bun and her eyes fly open. She tries to turn around, but he grips her by the shoulders, staying her.

“Doctor Ella,” she says in a low voice.

“Please, I insist you call me Martin. I want you to think of me as more of a friend than your Doctor.” He massages the back of her neck and down to her shoulders, his fingers brushing over the scar over her scapula. Cold fury settles in her stomach making her mouth taste sour.

“Martin,” she says in a small voice. She forces herself to loosen under his ministrations.

“Yes that’s it. I want to help you.” His lips brush her ear.

In a blur of motion Jane seizes his wrist, twisting hard and nearly hyper extending his elbow to the point of breaking. With a startled cry, she has him pinned on top of his desk, her elbow digging in between his shoulder blades. She tweaks his arm painfully to get his attention.

“Listen to me very carefully, _Martin_ ,” she snarls down close to his face. “I don’t know how many patients you’ve taken advantage of, but mark my words, it stops today. Is that clear?” She twists his arm again and he gives an undignified yelp before nodding furiously. “It is every medical professional’s duty to protect their patients, and you sir have utterly trampled that promise. As a soldier, I have promised to defend the weak, and I take my role very seriously. Now, after I break your arm,” she strengthens her hold on him as he suddenly panics, “you are going to think about all the creative ways I could have upheld my promise, and after being exceedingly grateful at the fact that I am choosing not to follow through, you are going to hand your remaining patients over to a colleague, because I really don’t think psychology is your calling. Do we have an agreement?”

“Y-yes. Of course. What ever you say. Just don’t —”

Jane doesn’t hear the rest of his pleading over the sound of his ulna snapping, because honestly, she’s beyond caring. 

She walks out of his office, her hands more steady than they’ve been in a long while. Maybe this therapy lark wasn’t completely wasted. Who knows? She might start that blog after all.

***

She’s half way across Russell Square Park when it finally hits her that she should probably be concerned about that arrogant bastard pressing charges, but every time she thinks about his greasy fingers on the back of her neck, her worry is overwhelmed by rage.

She almost doesn’t hear her name as it’s called to her from behind.

“Jane? Jane Watson?” She whips around, her loose hair getting tangled in her face. A homely man with glasses trots up to her, breathing heavily from the mild exertion. “It’s Mike! Stamford? We interned at Bart’s together.”

“Oh yes…of course,” she shakes his hand.

“I know I got fat!” he grins. “You look really good though,” he says, and for a moment she’s instantly back on guard, but she soon lowers her defences when he adds: “I’ve got the wife to blame for my spare tyre.”

He chuckles amiably, and Jane joins in. “No don’t be silly. You’re looking well too.”

“Ta, for that, but you’re too kind. Anyway. What have you been up to? Last I heard you were out there somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

“Got shot,” she deadpans.

“Oh well…” he trails off awkwardly, and clears his throat. “For that I think I should buy you a coffee, at least.”

She dithers uncomfortably for a moment, but at the hopeful look on his face she allows it and accompanies him on a small park bench.

“What have you been up to recently? Still at Bart’s?” she asks making small talk. God she hates small talk.

“Yes, but teaching now! Bright young things like we used to be. Hate them all!” he grins. “And you? Just in town ‘til you get yourself sorted?”

“I can’t afford London on an Army Pension,” she scoffs.

“And you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the Jane Watson I know.”

“Well I’m not—” she snaps before balling her left fist in attempts to stifle the ludicrous tremor. Mike clears his throat awkwardly, and they sit there in silence for a few minutes sipping their respective coffees. Jane notices it’s mild out today, and wishes abjectly she could see the colour of the sky. It must be so blue after so many recent days of grey. Hateful, hateful Grey…

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

“She can’t even help herself.”

“Ah that’s a shame. Well there must be something you can do. Get a flatshare maybe?”

“Come on,” she guffaws. “Who would want me as their flatmate?”

“You know…you’re the second person who’s said that to me today.” Mike gives an odd little smirk, and if she didn’t know better, she would pass the roguish gleam in his eye off as something else. In spite of herself, her curiosity is piqued.

“Who was the first?”

***

The man with the unusual eyes currently using her phone to text is clearly an arrogant prat. 

Who’s quite possibly in love with himself. 

It’s this reason, and the dejected look on that girl’s face (Molly was it?) that prevents Jane from backing out immediately. If anything, the last thing she needs is…complications where flatmates are concerned. But the man is clearly oblivious to the poor thing’s advances, so she gathers that it probably won’t be a problem. He hands the phone back to her, his eyes snapping up to hers (seriously what colour were they?) and even though his lips don’t smile, the cleverness in their depths is akin to something of the sort.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he says.

“Sorry, what?”

“Your tour. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did…?” She looks at Mike who just shakes his head.

“Can you pass me that bottle of acid there? It’s just next to you,” the man asks, smoothing over her question. Two favours in under three minutes, he _is_ presumptuous isn’t he? He looks at her expectantly, even though it’s quite possible for him to reach it himself with his own lanky arms. She huffs.

“Which one?” There are several, all nondescript.

“The one with the green cap.”

She balks, panic causing her to look up at him with wide eyes before she expertly reins it in. His eyebrow quirks in amusement and it’s singularly the most irritating thing she’s ever seen. She snatches the first bottle she comes to, not really caring in the end.

“Here,” she says thrusting it out to him. He looks down at it, and takes it from her returning to his microscope. He drops a few units of liquid into the Petri dish, and leans over the eye pieces, two pools of light causing his irises to shine like a cat’s.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

“Erm…what?” 

“I play it. It helps me concentrate. Sometimes I go days on end without saying a word. Will that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He looks up from the microscope and smiles smugly before typing something on his laptop.

Jane looks at Mike, and he shakes his head again raising his hands.

“Who said anything about flatmates?” she says not able to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

“I did. I was just telling Mike this morning that apparently I am a difficult man to flatshare with, and here he is just back from lunch with an old friend, obviously just home from military service in Afghanistan. Honestly, it wasn’t that difficult a leap.” 

“How _did_ you know about that?”

He looks up at her again with that false smile as if he’s barely tolerating the presence of the lesser IQ’s in the room, and with a flourish he gets to his feet swinging his great dark coat around him like a cape. 

“How do you fancy Central London? I think between the two of us we can afford the flat I’ve picked out. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.”

“Do you have a penchant for not answering questions?” Jane says bristling. She hasn’t even decided if she _wants_ a flatmate yet. This all started out as a whim after all.

“Among other things,” he says distractedly winding a scarf around his neck and making his way to the door. “Where did I put that riding crop? Ah, yes the Mortuary!” Mike sputters in horror at this, and in spite of everything, Jane actually laughs. The man looks back at her, surprise on his face and Jane can’t help but be surprised too. It’s been a long time since she’s laughed.

“So that’s it then?” she says, the grin still apparent in her voice.

“What is?”

“We’ve only just met, and we’re going to go look at a flat?”

“Problem?”

“We know nothing about each other. I don’t know where it is, or even your name.” He fixes his mercurial gaze on her again, and she thinks his eyes must be the colour of silver due to how strange they are. 

“I know you’re an invalided Army doctor home from Afghanistan needing a flatshare because you don’t get on with your brother, who is quite possibly an alcoholic which is the reason you won’t go to him for help. Most likely it’s because his wife left him. And I know your therapist thinks your recent colour blindness is psychosomatic — quite correctly I’m afraid. Quite enough to go off of, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How—?” she starts, but the words die in her throat.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.” And with one last nod at Mike, the cheeky bastard _winks_ at her and vanishes.


	2. Sex Toys and Pyromanics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's first impression of Jane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh poor Molly in this chapter. He doesn't mean to be a twat to her, he's just clueless.

* * *

From the moment Sherlock laid eyes on Jane Watson, he dismissed her entirely. (Ordinary. Dull. Unremarkable just like the rest of them.) And he had every intention of scaring her off right then and there. However, she presented as a bit of a puzzle than he initially thought, and the bottle of acid proved there was something more under that unassuming and two sizes too big jumper. It was at the very least…interesting. 

His other flatmates over the months had all been disasters. (Morons, all of them.) They all had petty lives and expectations, and were impossibly tedious and offended easily. At first he conjectured it was because all of them were male, and to test his hypothesis he had tried rooming with a female for a whole month which was equally disastrous with all the aforementioned grievances and on top of it an added dose of unwarranted sexual attraction on her part. It ended with him in his current situation needing to find new place of residence. (Who knew she was a pyromaniac? It’s always something.)

Then there was Jane. He could tell the whole issue of a sexual attraction would not be a problem with her, and there was the fact that she wasn’t intimidated by him one bit. She also did stuff for him. Two favours in under three minutes — that could prove useful. And she was a girl. Girls did…domestic-y things. That would mean more time for him to research and experiment and not have to worry about things like laundry and bills. 

It was these reasons that had him re-examining the possibility of a flatshare with a member of the opposite sex. He will admit now that he might have been a bit over eager in his deductions at the end, wanting nothing more than to impress her into coming tomorrow. If she could just see the location he knew she wouldn’t be able to turn it down. (It’s Central London after all.)

And there was that other thing: he made her laugh. Which was interesting considering when he revisited the conversation in his head, the implications with the riding crop should have been on all accounts unsettling for normal people at least. (Acceptable social conventions, innuendo, and all that.) Mike nearly swallowed his own tongue in the end. But Jane actually laughed. It was then that he knew Jane Watson, former Army doctor, was perhaps a bit less normal and possibly a person that could put up with him of all people. He knew he had to make her move in with him.

“Um…Sherlock?” Molly’s timid voice squeaks out from behind him. “Here’s your…er, riding crop.” She blushes and holds it out to him. “It was accidentally zipped up with Mr. Albertson.”

“Ah. Thank you Molly.” He flexes it in his gloved hands for a moment appreciating its lithe form. His head snaps up suddenly. “Molly. Does recreational sex paraphernalia intimidate you?”

She blushes an alarming shade of scarlet. “Wha – what?” she nearly chokes.

“Sex toys!” he says impatiently smacking the end of the crop against his palm. She flinches violently, her eyes wide.

“N-no. I’m not a prude,” she says in an impressive feat of gathering her wits. He really wasn’t the sensitive type, and in retrospect he wonders if this was perhaps the best way to go about things. He dismisses the notion.

“Good. Will you go by _Paramours_ and pick up a ball gag? I need to run more tests.”

“ _Paramours_ …the sex shop?”

“Problem?”

“Well…”

“A man’s alibi depends on it Molly!” he says raising the crop in the air.

“Yeah so you’ve said,” she says morosely. He cocks his head and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“You could be saving a life, Miss Hooper,” he says quietly, and she blinks up at him.

“Yeah. Yeah all right,” she says, her cheeks pinkening again.

“Excellent! When you get it, just pop it into Mr. Albertson’s mouth, and I’ll be here first thing in the morning to check on him.” He opens his wallet and hands her a few notes. She looks up at him startled.

“Sherlock this is fifty quid.”

“What not enough?” he immediately thumbs through the stack in his wallet and hands her another fifty pounds.

“No! No it’s too much. I mean…I’m just guessing, of course. I don’t think a ball gag is that expensive.”

“Oh. Well keep the rest I don’t care,” he says waving his hand, his mind drifting to other things. “You best hurry, Molly. Rigor Mortis should be setting in soon, and I should think it would be most impossible to attempt to force anything into said orifice for very much longer.”

She blushes deeply again all the way to the tips of her ears, and Sherlock wonders if she has a condition.

Without waiting for her reply, he turns on his heel and makes his way to the lift with his riding crop under his arm, frantically thumbing through his mobile. He’s so preoccupied he almost misses the black sedan slowly following him on the street. He groans as it pulls up to him and the tinted window rolls down.

“Oh god, _go away_ ,” Sherlock hisses.

“Still on the prowl for a flatshare, Sherlock?” Mycroft says cloyingly. “I had thought that after your most recent escapade, you would have sworn off flatemates for good.”

“You think I’m going to prove you right after everything? If anything I’m even more determined.”

“Yes. Which is why I’ve taken the liberty to procure a file on Miss Watson.”

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” he says attempting to march off.

“Of course. Now get in the car. I know you want to.” Mycroft arches an eyebrow and waves the brown file tauntingly. Sherlock grits his teeth irritated that he’s tempted, and in the end he decides to get in the car convincing himself it’s _only_ to get him to go away faster. He slams the door and pulls out a cigarette.

“I thought you were trying to quit?” Mycroft says and pulls out a lighter. “I know your new landlady doesn’t allow smoking in her building.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he says around the filter between his teeth. He ignores the offered lighter and instead he pulls out a book of matches. He takes a drag and doesn’t even try to aim the smoke away from his pompous brother. Mycroft grimaces and waves his hand in front of his face.

“It’s really atrocious, your manners, or lack thereof,” he remarks. Sherlock simply smirks, and Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Do you want to see what I have on Doctor Watson or not?”

“I’d rather not, no. It defeats the point.”

“Ah yes. You like surprises don’t you? How did that work out last time?”

Sherlock thinks back to his bed back at Montague Street. On fire. While he was still in it.

“At least I wasn’t bored,” he shrugs nonchalantly swishing the riding crop in the air in front of him. He prods Mycroft in the stomach.

“Sherlock Holmes!” he barks, snatching the crop and slamming it down on the seat next to him. “This isn’t a game anymore. I had hoped you would be a better judge of character and I wouldn’t have to do everything for you like always, but after your last flatmate, I can see that you can’t even manage this on your own.”

“Can you really not keep your big nose out of my life? Is this what this is about? You feel like you’re losing control?”

“It’s about the people you keep company with. And this one’s no different. I’m not just talking about jealous piques or misplaced affections, Sherlock. Doctor Watson is dangerous: unstable even.”

“Please,” he scoffs trying to hide his sudden excitement. (Jane Watson really was proving to be a puzzle.) “She’s all of five feet, what could she possibly do to me aside from burn the place down? — which I know for a fact she doesn’t have proclivities towards incendiary devices whatsoever.”

“She has PTSD.”

“That’s to be assumed. She just got back from Afghanistan. Nothing that a spot of therapy won’t fix. That’s what normal people do after all,” he dismisses.

“Yes that is what normal people do. However, normal people usually don’t break their therapist’s arms and then go about finding a flatmate all in the same day as if it were nothing,” Mycroft levels. Sherlock sits back in the seat positively stunned.

“Oh, now that _is_ interesting, isn’t it?” Mycroft groans at this. “Wait. _Why_ is that interesting?” he asks no one in particular, his mind whirring. He recalls his eidetic memory and catalogues everything about Jane Watson that he overlooked previously: 

her hair usually fastidiously pulled back due to years in the military was unkempt and hastily tied;  
the jumper she wore hurriedly donned as an after thought, was practically a study in semiotics itself clearly throwing off signals that scream at the world to keep its breadth;  
and her rigid posture when she met him, instantly on the defensive. 

It all clicks into place. 

“Of course…she was assaulted.”

“Pardon?” Mycroft says surprised flipping through the file.

“Yes. Obvious. Her therapist took advantage of her, or tried to at least.” His lip curls in a smile. “Come on, Mycroft. The woman is a _doctor_ and a _soldier_. I can’t think of anyone with a more steadfast moral compass, can you? She’s hardly the type to just go around breaking people’s arms without a good reason. What was the therapist’s name?” Sherlock asks already half way through composing a text to Lestrade.

“Doctor Ella,” Mycroft supplies easily enough, but a puzzled curiosity flashes in his eyes. “You think she’s not the first.” It’s not a question.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead he finishes thumbing out the text urging the DI to look in on the nefarious psychotherapist. He snaps his mobile shut with a flourish and takes the cigarette that had been loosely hanging from his mouth. He blows another acrid cloud in Mycroft’s direction.

“Well this has been a marvellous chat, but I’ve really got to dash.” The car rolls to a stop at the kerb. “Oh and mind your business, Mycroft. And get rid of that file. I’ve no use for it.”

“As you wish, Brother,” Mycroft says with a tilt of his head. Sherlock slams the door and sets off down the street. He flicks his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his heel, and fishes his phone back out of his pocket.

After a bit of poking around in some files he really shouldn’t have access to, he manages to find out Jane’s number by narrowing it down to a handful of service providers. His thumbs flash over the keys.

_You don’t have any cats do you? I hate cats, and I’m not sure Mrs. Hudson would approve.  
SH_

Sherlock tucks his phone back in his pocket and heads for the Vauxhall railway arches. When he crosses Waterloo bridge, he lights his last cigarette and observes the London skyline, enjoying the last of his smoky nicotine while he can. His pocket vibrates.

_how did you get this number?_

He smiles. It took her less time than he thought to figure out it was him. Of course he did use his familiar signature, so it’s possible even someone like Anderson could put two and two together, and Jane Watson was definitely no Anderson.

_Not important. Let’s just say Mike.  
SH_

The next text comes almost immediately.

_ok. who is mrs. hudson?_

_Our landlady. Now about the cats…  
SH_

_right. I don’t have any cats. and let’s get something straight, I don’t even know if I’m moving in with you yet._

_Of course you are. Just wait ‘til you see it. It’s a prime spot.  
SH_

_sounds expensive. Central London._

_Mrs. Hudson owes me a favour. She’s giving me a deal on it.  
SH_

_some deal I gather._

_A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.  
SH_

_wait you stopped her husband from being executed?_

_Oh no. I ensured it.  
SH_

There is a lapse in the conversation here, and Sherlock isn’t sure why this suddenly makes him nervous. He does the only thing he can think of and fires off another text to fill the dead space.

_Your grammar is terrible, by the way.  
SH_

Then after another beat:

_Most mobiles have an automatic capitalisation feature. You could save yourself the hassle and turn it back on.  
SH_

_well now mr. science man. if I knew that I wouldn’t be troubling you with my terrible grammar would I? do you normally insult all of your potential flatmates mr. holmes?_

_Make no mistake. I insult everyone. And you can call me Sherlock.  
SH_

_I can assure you it’s much less tedious to program Sherlock into your contacts than Mr. Science Man.  
SH_

Another lapse. Before he can think too much on it, he crams his mobile back into his pocket and sets off.

He spots Alison where he knew she would be, nursing a coffee in a paper cup out side of the small diner near the train station.

“Mister ‘Olmes,” she acknowledges with a tip of her head. She holds the warm coffee in between her palms.

“Alison,” he says and scrutinises her. He pulls off his leather gloves one finger at a time. “Cold out here. You should check out that shelter I told you about.”

“Mm. Just might tonight,” Alison says her breath ghosting out from her lips. “None’ve us have ‘eard anyfing on that Davenport woman. Nor the other one and that Sir Jeffery bloke. Other than what’s already in the papers, that is.”

“Noted. It’s as much as I expected. Our killer is a clever one.” Sherlock reaches for her cup and takes a sip, grimacing at the flavour. Before he hands it back, he deftly slips a piece of paper in the protective cardboard sleeve. “I need you and your people to keep tabs on a certain psychotherapist. He’s likely to panic once indictments go under way, and he’s the type to skip town when things go pear-shaped.”

“Sure. Me and mine’ll keep an eye out,” she nods and accepts a few notes from him.

“Should be easy to spot. I’m told he has a broken arm,” he smirks, and presses his gloves into her free hand. “Stay warm tonight.”

“Will do. Cheers,” Alison says, and he heads for the nearest street to hail a taxi.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

“Baker Street,” Sherlock says, slipping his phone once more out of his coat pocket. He has one new text.

_ok Sherlock it is. you can call me Jane._

* * *

That night clear across town, Jane Watson sits down at her computer staring at her newly minted blog. Her fingers hover over the keys tentatively, her left hand shaking but only slightly. She looks over at her phone, and smiles.

_January 29th  
Nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened…_


	3. Let's Go Look at a Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promptly at 7:00 pm, Jane and Sherlock go look at a flat.

* * *

Jane looks around the messy flat with interest. The sitting room is a bit small and the ancient wallpaper is really quite tacky, but compared to her bedsit, it’s nice to know that there is a separate room designed solely for sitting in the first place. It’s a stupid thing to get excited over because: different rooms for different purposes! — and damn that Holmes for knowing that she would fall in love with it almost instantly. She tries to play it cool, however.

“Well. This could be very nice,” she says casually despite the boxes of clutter. Old tenant probably.

“Yes. My thoughts precisely,” Sherlock says happily, hands in his pockets as he rocks forward on the balls of his feet.

He continues with “So I’ve gone ahead and moved right in,” at the exact moment Jane decides to remark: “After we burn this rubbish of course.” It was meant to be a joke, but at Sherlock’s alarmed expression she feels her face flush with embarrassment.

“Oh…I mean…this is all…?”

“Well obviously I can straighten up a bit,” he says and sweeps a stack of files off the small writing desk and into a random box labeled ‘cockery.’ She feels like an arse, and shifts nervously on her feet. Sherlock then picks up a stack of correspondence and a dagger of all things, and pins them soundly to the mantel. The abruptness of this causes the other knick knacks likewise balanced there to rattle about precariously, and without really thinking Jane rushes forward to catch one of them before it falls to the ground.

“Is this a skull?” she asks looking down at the toothy skeletal grin in her hands with a mixture of horror and the strange urge to laugh at the absurdity.

“Yes,” Sherlock says taking it from her almost protectively. “He’s a friend,” he frowns at this suddenly realising how it sounds. “Well by ‘friend’ I mean… look you don’t really have an affinity for lighting things on fire do you?”

“What? No, of course not!” Jane says whiplashed at the change in tack. “I didn’t really mean we should burn your st— oh dear this really is quite awkward isn’t it?”

“Mm. Perhaps,” Sherlock says and places the skull back on the mantle. He looks at her from the corner of his eye.

“Okay, let me try again,” she clears her throat. “This is very nice.”

Sherlock faces her, slipping his hands back into his pockets, a little of the tension leaving his features. “Yes. Yes I think so. My thoughts precisely.”

Like an angel sent to deliver them from further awkwardness, Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door with a little “Hoo hoo!” and patters in delightfully on kitten feet. Jane couldn’t have been more relived. “How do you like it dear?”

“Oh I was just telling Sherlock that it’s very, er, nice,” she says. She was really at a loss for eloquence today it seems if ‘nice’ was the only word her brain kept circling back to. She doesn’t miss how Sherlock’s lips quirk in an almost-smile, however.

“Yes indeed. There’s a room upstairs. If you’ll be _needing_ two, that is,” Mrs. Hudson says cheekily with a wink. Jane sputters, but before she can say anything, Mrs. Hudson is off fretting about in the kitchen over what appears to be some resemblance of a table under a mountain of science equipment. “Oh Sherlock, just look at this mess.”

Jane decides to let the comment slip, and she shakes her head as Mrs. Hudson almost knocks over a Bunsen burner.

“Nope. I’ve changed my mind,” Jane announces to a preoccupied Sherlock as he still half-heartedly attempts to ‘organise’.

His head snaps up from sticking pencils into the dirt of a potted plant, and his fierce gaze locks on hers. Surprisingly, she’s learning to adjust to the intensity of it. “How do you mean?”

“I am calling you Mr. Science Man after all. I’ve decided,” she says good-naturedly grabbing an encyclopaedia off the top of a random stack, and flipping to a heavily annotated and bookmarked section on honeybees. “Light reading?”

Sherlock takes the book from her fingers, his usually defensive expression softening into…relief? 

“People fill their heads with all sorts of rubbish. It doesn’t make sense to store things that aren’t useful,” he says brusquely.

“Like two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash?” _Or bee flight patterns for that matter?_ she thinks.

“Ah so you’ve read my website.”

“The Science of Deduction, yeah.”

“What did you think?” he says proudly.

She snorts, and he looks mildly dejected as he sniffs haughtily. “You cannot possibly tell that much about a person based on his tie. Or his left thumb.”

“Just like I can’t tell your military career from your face and the set of your shoulders, and your brother’s drinking from your mobile phone?” Sherlock challenges.

“Yes, how can you?” she asks, genuinely curious. He leans in as if about to divulge a great and terrible secret, and she can’t help but lean in too.

“I’m Mr. Science Man. What would be the fun in telling?” His eyes sparkle wickedly, and for the umpteenth time Jane wishes she knew what colour they were.

“What about these suicides, then Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks walking in with a copy of the Sun. The front page is splashed with the gruesome details of the uncanny suicides. “I thought it would be something up your street. Three all exactly the same…dreadful.”

The doorbell buzzes, and Sherlock’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Four!” he says rushing past Jane towards the stairs.

“Sorry?” Mrs. Hudson says.

“There’s been a fourth!” Sherlock yells, his feet clamouring down the steps.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Hudson tuts. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Jane can hear muffled voices from down stairs, and tries not to feel out of place standing by herself in the middle of the sitting room. She makes her way over to one of two armchairs, the leather one with metal armrests, and grimaces. It’s really not comfortable at all, so she switches to the lumpy maroon one. After plumping up the Union Jack pillow she’s surprised to find she fits into it perfectly, and for a second she can actually picture herself living at 221b. _With a madman_ , her brain supplies helpfully. A madman who bursts back into the flat moments later with all the glee of a kid in a sweet shop.

“This is brilliant! Glorious! _Four_ serial-suicides, and a note this time. It’s like Christmas! Where is my scarf? Mrs. Hudson have you seen my scarf?” Sherlock spins around frantically in a complete circle, dark curls whipping about. Jane looks on, equal parts confused and entertained. She tries not to laugh when he dons his great coat with all the finesse of a bull fighter donning his cape.

“Not your housekeeper, love. Did you check the sideboard in the hall?” she says handing a steaming cuppa out to Jane.

“Ah yes thank you!” he says and quickly pecks her on the cheek. “Jane, don’t wait up. I’ll likely be out late. Mrs. Hudson I’ll probably need something to eat later. Something cold will do.”

“Not your housekeeper. Besides, isn’t that what your young Jane is for?” Mrs. Hudson smiles.

“Oh I’m not — we’re not —” Jane tries to say, looking to Sherlock for some form of affirmation or help with clarifying, but he was already out in the hall fiddling with his scarf. 

“Make yourself at home, Jane!” he yells, and bounds down the stairs once more. Jane blows a long breath out of her nose.

“He’s just like my husband was. Always swanning off, could never keep still. You’ll get used to it, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says with a twinkle in her eye as she makes her way back to the kitchen. Jane tries to protest again that they really, _really_ aren’t a couple, but it’s lost over the sound of dishes and the running tap. Frustrated, Jane smoothes her hand over the top of her hair, and idly fingers the hair tie before running her fingers down the length of her pony tail. A nervous habit she picked up since she had been back to wearing her hair more loose.

She stands and catches sight of the skull grinning at her.

“Are you his previous flatmate, then?” she says chuckling at the thought. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears the lunatic clatter up the steps again.

“You’re a doctor,” he says a little breathlessly from the doorway, a gleam in his eye.

“Yes.”

“An Army doctor,” he says again.

“Um, yeah?” Jane frowns, and shuffles on her feet uncertainly. Sherlock prowls into the room like some bloody jaguar, his hands clasped behind his back until he is mere inches from her. She raises her chin, not sure why she is suddenly defensive.

“Any good?”

Jane arches an eyebrow. “I can perform an Api in the middle of a desert and trache someone with a biro.”*

“Hypothetically or…?”

“Have done. Both. The latter twice,” she says preening a bit. She was humble by nature, but when it came to her skill with trauma she would admit that she was a damn fine surgeon if she ever knew one.

“That’s terrible. Truly awful the things you must have seen; violent deaths, the sort,” Sherlock says. His words speak of sympathy, but he has an insanely inappropriate grin on his face. For a second, a flash of deep blue catches her eye, and her gaze flicks down to his scarf. A thrill of anticipation unfurls in her stomach.

“Mm. Quite enough for a lifetime, I should think.”

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh _God_ , yes. Thought you’d never ask,” she says returning his hyena-like rictus, and without another thought, she follows him out of the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * If anybody wants to know what this looks like I got the idea from [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEJbYN8Nda4)
> 
> I picture Jane as being as bamf as Owen Hunt from Grey's Anatomy, so I should probably mention that the idea isn't mine and belongs to said series.


	4. Let's Go Look at a Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a woman laying dead, and Jane get's kidnapped. Essentially.

* * *

Sherlock had been trying, and failing, to ignore Jane’s furtive sidelong glances from across the cab. It was extremely distracting and utterly annoying. He huffs a breath out of his nose.

“Okay. You have questions.” He notices the way her expression brightens and how about a million questions flicker across her face at once.

“Where are we going?” she starts. (Obvious question, unimaginative. Dull.)

“Brixton; crime scene. Next?” he says impatiently.

“To look at a dead person?”

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes.”

“Who are you?” Jane says, and Sherlock actually looks at her then. It wasn’t exactly a question he was unsuspecting of however, the way she asked it was akin to something of wonder. Albeit sceptical wonder at that. “I mean, what is it you do exactly?”

“What is it you think I do?” he says watching her eyes narrow before she pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth to worry it. This idiosyncrasy of hers is instantly fascinating yet irritating in equal measure. His eye can’t help but be drawn to the two faint marks her teeth leave behind impressed upon her pink lip.

“Well according to your website, you say you are a detective…”

“Consulting Detective,” he corrects. “Only one in the world. I invented it.”

“Of course you did,” she says wryly. “But the police don’t consult private detectives on murder cases.”

“I’m not a private detective. Consulting is not the same as that banal sleuthing business that PI’s are wont to do.”

“All right. So meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“What an amateur? Come on.”

Sherlock grits his teeth as his temper suddenly flares, but then he catches the flash in her eye, and the ironic curl to her lip. She’s goading him, wanting him to prove it like she has been the moment they met. (Well if she wants a show…)

“Yesterday when I said ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’ you looked surprised.”

“Yes how _did_ you know?” she asks, her curiosity warring for casualness.

“I _observed_. When you walked in you immediately stood at parade rest when Mike was showing you around. That, and the way you kept your back against the wall speaks of military. You subconsciously feel the urge to map out the exits in any given place regardless of threat or lack thereof. However, your conversation as you entered the room spoke of doctor. You said ‘…bit different from what I remember,’ meaning you trained at Bart’s in the past. Mike’s never been in the military so you met and developed a rapport somewhere else. Your internship then. So Army Doctor. 

“Your face is tan, but it’s beginning to fade, no tanning above the wrists, not sunbathing then. Just got back from tour, but why? Injury, you’ve been invalided recently, but it was rather traumatic so that speaks on behalf of your colour blindness. But when I asked you to pass me the green bottle of acid in the lab, you still chose correctly even though you couldn’t tell them apart which shows that you can see the colours in front of you, but only when you’re not thinking about it. Psychosomatic.”

“How do you know I haven’t always been colour blind?” she challenges.

“They don’t allow completely colour blind people into combat situations, and given you were invalided due to injury, it suggests you were doing little else,” he scoffs. She blinks baffled, but he’s not done with her just yet. He narrows in on her. “Then there’s your brother.”

“Ah, yes,” she says. Sherlock doesn’t miss the slight wariness in her tone, but he also doesn’t miss the ghost of an intrigued smile hovering on her lips.

“It’s your phone,” he says, truly gathering steam. He holds out his hand and she passes it to him willingly. “It’s new and expensive, equipped with all the bells and whistles that a person like you could honestly care less about. You’re looking for a flatshare, so you would never spend money on this willingly. A gift then. This is a young man’s gadget, I should know I have the same one,” he says and fishes an identical mobile out of his pocket. The only difference is that hers is red instead of black, belying a slightly newer model. He flips them both over, and shows her the backs. “See the scratches on your phone? Careless wear and tear from being shoved in a pocket with keys and coins. You wouldn’t treat a luxury item like this, if your jumpers are anything to go by.”

“Hey. So what if I’m thrifty?” she bristles, but urges him on with her eyes.

“The next part’s easy,” he says tapping the back casing of her phone.

“The engraving.”

“Harry Watson. Must be your brother tech savvy and all, could be a cousin but I’m guessing you’re not close to much of your extended family. Being on tour for a long period of time does tend to estrange a person from their loved ones. Couldn’t be a father, no. It’s clear your father’s been dead for a while now.”

Jane blanches at this. “How do you know that?”

“You joined the Army and went off into war in the middle of your internship,” Sherlock says arching an eyebrow. “Call it what you will, misplaced honour or whatever, but its written in every line of your face. Or perhaps you did it to run away.” Jane inhales a sharp breath as his deductions move into the realm of the personal, and somewhere in the back of his mind Sherlock knows he should probably stop, but he can’t now that he sees it so clearly laid out before him. “So you have a brother, but why aren’t you living with him? It’s obvious he cares about you seeing as how he gave you his phone that was given to him by his wife, ‘Clara xxx.’ Three kisses speaks of romantic attachment, the expense of the phone says more than just a girlfriend, but why did he give it away? She left him most likely do to his drinking problem, which is also the reason you won’t live with him. You don’t approve seeing as how it probably runs in the family, and could present as a possible trigger for you, seeing as you have a therapist and a psychosomatic condition.”

“How could you possibly know about the drinking?” she says a little weakly.

“Shot in the dark, that. The scratches around the power connection indicate shaking hands and unsteady coordination. You never see a sober man’s phone with them, or a drunk man’s without.” He finishes with a flourish and hands her phone back to her. She takes it from him and looks down at it with a slight frown and a shake of her head. He notices her face is pale, and her left hand is clenched in a tight fist, and he realises too late he did it again. He pushed too far. He looks out the window waiting for what he knows will come next. He wonders if that man from Kensington still needed a flatshare…

“That was…amazing,” she says matter-of-factly slipping the phone back into her pocket.

Sherlock’s head whips around to look at her, and for the first time his utter shock makes his mind go blank for several seconds. She stays staring straight ahead, an astonished smile in the corners of her mouth.

“You really think so?” he asks quietly. _I’ve just stripped you bare in under ten minuets, how can you say amazing?_

“Of course it was,” she says immediately turning to look at him. “Really quite extraordinary.”

He scoffs. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off. Or variations thereof,” he purses his lips. Jane laughs again, a rich open sound that causes him to chuckle despite himself as he looks back out the window. 

Jane Watson was unexpected surprise.

* * *

“So did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asks rubbing his gloved hands together as he trains his gaze on the flashing lights and police tape a few yards in front of them. His unbridled glee was really not decent.

“Oh you’d like to know wouldn’t you?” she says archly.

“What?” he says, eyes snapping to her. “What did I miss?”

“Harry and I don’t get on, never really have unless it came to our mother. Harry and Clara split up just before Christmas, and yes it was due to the drinking.”

“Ha! Spot on, then.”

“Harry’s short for Harriet,” she says smugly and almost doesn’t notice when he stops dead in his tracks. She spins to face him. “Why did you bring me again?”

“Harry’s your _sister_ ,” he hisses, incensed. “Why is it always something?” He punches a fist into his open palm.

“No seriously, what am I doing here?” Jane says as Sherlock leads her up to the sectioned off crime scene. She didn’t give it much thought before, but now she was starting to realise that she was about to go do…whatever it was. To a dead body.

“I need an assistant, and you’re a doctor,” Sherlock says as if this was all the explanation required. Which is wasn’t. She sighs as he helps himself to her personal space and drags her behind him by her wrist.

“What’s this then?” a tall woman with dark skin and a sour look says stopping them with her open hand. “You of all people would bring a bloody _date_ to a crime scene. Freak.”

“She is a _colleague_ , Sally. Now let us pass, I’m here on invitation from the Inspector.”

“Colleague? Since when do you get a colleague?” Sally says, her eyes raking over Jane from head to toe. Jane tries her hardest to look like she’s meant to be there and raises her chin.

“Since your newest fling can’t manage to rub two brain cells together. Really, Sally, you can do better than _Anderson_ of all people,” Sherlock drawls and lifts the tape for them to pass under. “Do you honestly think he’s going to leave his wife?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” said man in question says as he descends the stairs that lead into the building. He has an equally sour expression on his thin and smarmy face. If her dad were here he’d say he looked like he had a bit of shit stuck to his upper lip. They seem perfect for each other, Jane thinks a little cruelly. For some reason their hostility towards Sherlock rubs Jane the wrong way and she wants to get away from them.

“How is it not everybody’s business after you two carry on the way you do? It’s obvious you’ve been sleeping together for a month now. Wife out of town again?”

“Oh don’t act like you worked it out,” Anderson says with a sneer. “Someone told you.”

“Your deodorant told me,” Sherlock says leaning in with a scowl.

“What are you on about?”

“It’s for men,” he says sniffing derisively. “And it’s the same brand that Sergeant Donovon is wearing.”

“Now listen,” Anderson says, his eyes flicking to Sally who was standing over Jane’s shoulder and positively shaking with fury. “I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to imply —”

“Oh I’m not implying anything. Although, if you have her over again to _scrub your floors_ I presume, at least get her a cushion. It will save her knees. Come on, Jane!” Sherlock says before Anderson or Sally have a chance to react, and Jane tries to hide her grin as she follows him up the stairs.

“Sherlock is that you?” a voice sounds from around the corner.

“Here put these on,” Sherlock says and hands Jane a forensic cover-all set. She narrows her eyes implying with a look that says ‘what-about-you?’ and he responds by arching an eyebrow that clearly suggests ‘don’t-be-ridiculous,’ so she decides not to question it. She’s gracelessly bent over adjusting the cloth booties over her trainers when a man walks into the room.

“Who is she?”

“She’s with me,” Sherlock replies succinctly. Jane tries to flick her unruly fringe out of her eyes as she wrestles with the last one.

“Yeah but who is she?” Finally situated, she straightens up just as Sherlock is about to growl out an impatient retort when her eyes lock onto the stranger’s, who in all actuality, really isn’t a stranger after all. “Janey? What the Hell are you doing here?”

“Uncle Greg?” Jane returns, mirroring his astonishment. Sherlock looks between the two horrified.

“Janey? _Uncle Greg?_ ” he groans. “Oh god, you two are related?”

“Well, not exactly. More like half related. Half uncle, I mean,” Jane explains lamely. Apparently today was just going to end with a steaming pile of more awkward.

“Christ, I haven’t seen you in over seven years. Last I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?”

“Got shot,” she says with a sigh. Ironic: having the same uncomfortable conversation twice in under forty-eight hours. Supreme luck, that. She clenches her jaw in mild irritation.

“My god,” Greg’s face pales. “I am so sorry. Jesus, I can’t believe no one told me. I mean I know your mum and I don’t get on, but for fuck’s sakes I would have liked to know about this!”

Jane blinks back the shock she feels. It’s been a while since someone has been up in arms on her behalf and she doesn’t pull away when he grips her fervently by the shoulders even though the dull scar tissue throbs under the pressure.

“Yeah, no I’m all right,” Jane says, and tires to ignore Sherlock’s intense scrutiny. “How’ve you been, then?”

“Good. You? You’re okay?”

“Managing,” she replies with a shrug.

“Great!” Sherlock interjects clearly at the end of his rope. “All caught up? Where’s the body, Lestrade?”

“Right, erm…” he drops his hands. “Jane we should—”

“Yeah we’ll catch up later,” Jane says relieved at the change in subject. Greg looks back uncertainly at the brief corridor behind him, trepidation playing on his face. Before he gets a chance to voice his concerns, however, Sherlock steps in impatiently.

“Look, she’s a medical professional and currently the only one willing to work with me. I need her opinion. Now will you please get on with it?”

He looks back at her, and Jane nods to reassure him. He sighs and pulls out a black notebook.

“Her name is Jennifer Wilson, and she’s right through here,” Greg says sinking into his role as Detective Inspector, all hard lines and business. “She hasn’t been here long it seems. A coupla kids found her. We’re running her information.” He leads them into a small room with damp smelling wallpaper and a rocking horse in the corner. Jane makes her way around Sherlock and bows her head in respect at what she sees.

A young woman in a dress suit lays face down in a pool of her own vomit; the fingers of her left hand reduced to a bloody pulp as she attempted to scratch one final message into the wooden floor boards. Jane cranes her neck to try and make out the word, when someone interrupts from the doorway.

“ _Rache_ ,” Anderson says leaning smugly against the jamb. “Means revenge. She was German then. She could be trying to tell us something.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and represses a sigh of the long suffering. He whips around and marches over. “Yes thank you for that,” and he slams the door in his face. “Of all the idiotic — see this is why I need an assistant, Lestrade!” he says and indicates Jane with sweep of his arm.

“Oh no. This isn’t going to be a regular thing, Sherlock. I’m already breaking the rules just letting you be here as it is.”

“Yes, but you need me,” Sherlock says, his gaze burning.

Lestrade huffs a breath out of his nose in defeat. “Yeah, I do. God help me. But I mean it. You aren’t involving her any more than you already have,” Lestrade says, his eyes sliding to hers. An odd protective look shows in his face that instantly reminds her of her father, and Jane is both overwhelmed and incensed. She levels a look at him that clearly states ‘I’m-no-wilting-flower-you-berk,’ and he shakes his head. “You’ve got two minutes.”

“Might need longer,” Sherlock murmurs. 

Jane watches him with fascination as a deadly stillness settles over him, the only thing flickering with energy are his two pale eyes. Suddenly he’s off in a flurry of movement, circling the woman, tugging at her sleeves and coat collar, and inspecting her hands and ears with a pocket magnifier. He pulls out an umbrella from her coat pocket and runs his latex clad fingers over the surface before putting it back, and then commits himself to the task of working her wedding ring off her finger which has most likely started to go stiff from rigor. His ministrations make absolutely no sense whatsoever to Jane.

He rises elegantly from his crouch and starts thumbing through his mobile rapid-fire. He pauses, his eyes snapping up at Lestrade. “Shut up.”

“Oi! I didn’t —”

“No but you were thinking. It’s annoying,” he remarks, returning to his task. A brief triumphant smile curls his lips. “Doctor Watson. What do you think?”

Jane looks at Lestrade, and he makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, and a stiff expression comes over his face. For a moment she thinks he is going to protest again, but he only nods resignedly, and Jane goes over and crouches next to the body. Sherlock swoops down next to her.

“Again: what am I doing here?” Jane demands in a hushed voice.

“You’re helping me prove a point.”

“I thought I was only helping you pay rent?” she arches her eyebrows.

“Yes, but this is more fun.”

“Fun? This woman is dead.”

“Brilliant analysis, Doctor. But I had hoped you would go deeper,” Sherlock deadpans, and Lestrade clears his throat behind them. Jane tosses Sherlock a scathing look, and leans over the woman putting her knowledge to use.

“Asphyxiated, probably from choking on her own vomit. No smell of alcohol present,” _I should know_ , she thinks and is reminded of Harry who still refuses to accept her phone calls lately, “so possibly a seizure, maybe drugs?”

“You’ve read the papers. You know what this is,” Sherlock intones. Jane was hoping it wasn’t but… 

“Yeah. The fourth suicide, you think?”

“Hey, you two. Mind sharing?” Lestrade says indicating his notebook, pen at the ready. Sherlock jumps to his feet. “So do you have anything, or what?”

“Not much,” Sherlock shrugs, and then proceeds to launch into his deductions so fast it has Jane’s head spinning to try and keep up. This woman is a serial adulteress, apparently, based on her ring; from Cardiff because rain; connected to a girl named Rachel, (‘Honestly she’s not bloody German, Lestrade.’); and has something to do with a suitcase. A suitcase which is apparently the answer to life, the universe, and everything, because suddenly Sherlock is whizzing about like a deranged fruit bat interrogating everyone and anyone if they’ve found it. Then, in a furious whirlwind of manic energy, he dashes out of the room jabbering on about serial killers and the colour pink. And with that he’s gone, seeming to take the very air out of the room in his wake.

***

Jane is still in a bizarre daze as she takes off her blue coveralls that she nearly misses Greg’s question.

“So, what are you doing with Sherlock Holmes?” His tone is casual, but his brows draw together in a heart achingly familiar expression.

“Don’t do that face with me, Uncle. I know what that’s about.”

“What face? What’s wrong with my face?” He grins lopsidedly shedding his own forensic wear.

“It’s your Interrogation Face. Dad used to use the same one on me and Harry when we were small.”

“How is your sister?” he asks quietly. 

Jane sighs. “Same ‘ol Harry.” She runs her hand over the top of her hair, smoothing down a few errant strands. She really didn’t want to talk about Harry right now. Thankfully, he seems to get the hint, and instead continues his previous line of questioning.

“Really, though. How did you become acquainted with Holmes? This is the first time he’s done this, brought someone along. Sherlock doesn’t…associate with people, and with all the flack I’m getting having him on board as is, I need to know if I need to be prepared for something untoward in the future. Is he paying you somehow?”

“What? No. I mean he did call me a colleague, but I’m hardly qualified to do…whatever it is he does. We were just looking at a flat together when —”

“Woah, wait. You were looking at a flat? With him?”

“Yes…?”

“Whatever for?”

“Apparently that’s what potential flatmates do, or so I hear,” she says confused at his bafflement.

“ _Flatmates?_ ” he says incredulously. “No, Jane. You can’t possibly move in with him. Sherlock, he — he’s not exactly normal.”

“Yeah I’ve worked that much out,” she says. She can’t explain why she’s suddenly defensive. “What is everybody’s problem with him, anyway?”

“You’ve met him, right? He finds joy in tearing people down. Makes a hobby of exploiting people’s weaknesses.”

“I don’t need you to defend my delicate constitution, Greg. I invaded Afghanistan, surely I can handle Sherlock Holmes.” 

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but the look on her face must make him change his mind. He chuckles, and cuffs his hand through his greying hair. “Yeah, if anyone could handle him, it would be you. Spitfire if I’ve ever met one.” A thought occurs to him. “Listen, if this is about you needing a place I’m sure I can talk to the old lady and we can let you stay in our basement.”

“Er, thanks, but no. I’m thirty-one. I’m not living in my Uncle’s basement,” she says dryly.

“All right, fair enough. Just thought I’d ask,” Greg says holding up his hands. “It’s really good to see you again, Janey. Been far too long.”

“Yeah. We need to catch up later. Good luck with all this, by the way,” Jane says as he walks her out of the building.

“Thanks. Good luck to you too. With Sherlock…” he trails off, that odd worry in his eyes again.

She doesn’t even make it out of the parking lot before the second warning comes as Sally Donovon corners her and with equal fervour with claims of his psychopathic tendencies and his penchant for the macabre.

“He gets off on it. One day if we’re not careful, there will be a body, and he’ll be the one standing over it.”

Therefore, it’s not really a shock to her when she’s followed by ringing payphones and street cameras, and urged to get into the mysterious black sedan. It doesn’t take a genius to know that this essential _kidnapping_ (because really, that’s what it was) has to do with her new flatmate. All she can think in the end is her day really can’t get much stranger as is, and how she’s not had anything remotely this interesting happen to her in god knows how long. It’s rather glorious if she were one to admit it and not feel bad about the fact.

So, when the car rolls to a stop in an abandoned warehouse, she takes a deep breath and strides out with confidence.

_Bring it on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anybody that's been reading this! Feedback is most helpful. I hope I do these characters justice.


	5. An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is surprised as well by the tenacity of a certain Army Doctor.

* * *

Mycroft honestly couldn’t see what his brother found in the girl. By all accounts she was rather ordinary: painfully so. Of course she’s a means to an end, but if that were simply the case Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered himself with that business with her therapist. Without a second thought or an ulterior motive, even. It was odd. And now he was dragging her to crime scenes of all things. 

It was for these reasons he felt he needed to give Doctor Jane Watson a second glance.

She stands defiantly at parade rest, her head held high.

“Ah, Doctor Watson. Please, have a seat,” he says pointing to a lone chair with the tip of his umbrella. She narrows her eyes, and crosses her arms.

“I’m fine thanks. You know if you wanted a chat you could have called me on my phone. Who are you?”

“An…interested party. Tell me, what is your association with Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft says slowly making his way towards her. She doesn’t balk, and in fact doesn’t seem surprised at all. Intersting.

“I could be wrong, but that’s really none of your business.” 

“Oh but it could be.”

“No. It really couldn’t,” she says raising her chin. Even though he was a head taller than her, it was easy to forget the height difference. There was a natural air about her that commanded attention. (Ah, yes the dossier said _Captain_ Waston.)

“You’ve been approached multiple times by people telling you to stay away from him, yet you’ve no plans on heeding their warnings. And now a strange man has abducted you and is plying you with questions about said individual.”

“Your point?”

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening,” she rebuts. And despite himself, Mycroft feels a frission of irritation. He’d always prided himself on his ability to cow some of the most powerful people in the world into submission, and here before him is an unremarkable Army doctor refusing to bat an eyelash. He hides his sudden repugnance with a laugh.

“Ah yes. Ever the brave soldier. Surely someone’s told you that bravery is just another word for stupidity?” She gives him a scornful look, and he presses on. “I will attempt to ask you again: what is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?”

“There isn’t one. I only met him yesterday.”

“Yes I know. And now you’re moving in with him and solving crimes. Should I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?” Mycroft says smiling stiffly. He relished the slight coil in her frame as she lets some of her composure slip.

“Listen Mr. Mysterious or who ever you are, I don’t know what you want from me or what any of this has to do with Sherlock Holmes. So if you are looking for my cooperation or whatever, I suggest you get to the point,” she says squaring her feet more firmly on the ground.

“My point is I am willing to make you an offer,” he says, and he doesn’t know what she was expecting but it obviously wasn’t this because she seems to deflate a little.

“An offer?”

“Yes. As I said, I am somewhat interested in Sherlock’s dealings, and I am willing to offer you a substantial sum of money in the future for your cooperation on such matters. That is if you are still moving into,” he pauses and takes out a small notebook from the inside of his jacket, “two hundred twenty-one bee Baker Street?”

Jane licks her lips and eyes the notebook suspiciously. “So what, you want me to spy on him? Go through his things?”

“No nothing too untoward or anything you would feel uncomfortable with. Just from time to time…let me know what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“Mm, nice of you. Funny, though. You don’t strike me as the type to make friends,” she says crossing her arms in front of her. Mycroft can’t help but bark out a laugh at this.

“You’ve met the man. How many friends do you think he has?”

“Exactly.” (Touché.)

“No he wouldn’t call me a friend. Our relationship has always been a difficult one. One might even call us enemies. He certainly would. His arch enemy perhaps. He does love to be dramatic.”

“And you wouldn’t know anything about theatrics now, would you?” she retorts, and Mycroft grits his teeth at her insolence. She really is rather infuriating, and he’s beginning to see why they might be good as partners. A tenacious pair at least. Or they might end up killing each other when all was said and done. Which could be entertaining.

Her text message alert chimes and she fishes a red mobile out from her jacket. She raises her eyebrows in amusement, and it’s not hard to work out who is on the other end. 

“Indeed,” he says with another artificial smile. “Now about my offer. I assume you understand that it would be preferable that Sherlock remain unaware of our arrangement due to —”

“No,” she says slipping her phone back in her pocket. Mycroft blinks.

“I’m sorry?”

“Not interested.”

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure,” he says, feeling like he’s missing something. In the past whenever he’d approached Sherlock’s other potential flatmates, they had taken to the idea quite keenly. By all means Jane Watson shouldn’t be any different. He knew for a fact that she was living on a pithy Army Pension alone and could benefit greatly with extra funds.

“Don’t bother. Are we done?” she regards him with a bored air, and Mycroft can feel his patience getting away from him.

“You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly,” he says darkly.

“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested in being a spy. I wouldn’t look good in all black.” 

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. He knows deflecting when he sees it. There’s something he’s overlooked and it’s beginning to grate on him. He pulls the notebook back out, and from the corner of his eye he sees her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear: her left ear. (Aha. I have you now, said the spider to the fly.)

“Trust Issues,” he states reading from the pages. “That’s what your therapist calls it.” Jane swallows, and for the first time she looks unnerved.

“What’s that?” she says. At the same time her text alert chimes again and she looks at it with a frown. Mycroft grins wolfishly.

“Could it be you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?” she says cramming the phone back into her pocket.

Mycroft hums in agreement. “Perhaps not. But there is _something_ , isn’t there?” He takes a few fluid steps towards her, and although her frame is rigid, she holds her ground. “Your therapist says you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That you’re haunted by the things you’ve seen in the war.”

“Who the _hell_ are you?” she says, her voice shaking with a slow burning and controlled rage. Mycroft steam rolls over the question.

“But he’s wrong, isn’t he? You’re not haunted by the war; you miss it, don’t you, Doctor?” She blanches at this, and before she has a chance to ready herself, he reaches out and restrains her by the right arm. Expecting her reaction, his other hand crosses in front smoothly and intercepts her impending left hook by the wrist. He observes her hand more closely before locking eyes with her. She struggles briefly before he lets her go and takes a placating step back. “Remarkable.”

“What is?” she bites out, tugging her black jacket back into place with an angry jerk.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand, however, you are under a great deal of stress right now and it’s perfectly steady,” he remarks casually and smirks when she holds out her hand in astonishment. “Sherlock brings you back to the battleground you so crave. When you are with him, you see what he sees: London’s very own war.”

“What do you even know about me?” she says dangerously, positively alive with fury and adrenaline.

He doesn’t deign an answer to that question, and instead twirls his umbrella. “It’s time to pick a side, Doctor Watson. I’ll be in touch if you would like to reconsider my offer.”

“Don’t count on it,” she scoffs, and Mycroft strolls confidently in the direction of the car waiting for him at the back of the warehouse. Before he leaves, he shoots a look over his shoulder.

“By the way: welcome back.”


	6. Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unorthodox date...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Jane are quoting The Three Musketeers. :) Because I'm a dork.

* * *

Jane watches the man saunter away, and takes out her mobile. She thumbs through the most recent text messages:

_Mr. Science Man – 8:39 PM_  
 _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient._  
 _SH_

_Mr. Science Man – 8:45 PM_  
 _If inconvenient come anyway._  
 _SH_

She sighs, torn, as she stands there. She feels as if she’s at a crossroads. On the one hand, there were several people at this point warning her away from the mad genius detective and soon-to-be flatmate, and then there was the fact that he was obviously in league with some evil mastermind of some sort…but then…there was something else. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She felt as if she were teetering on the precipice of a rather important decision, and had no idea which side she hoped to land on.

Her phone chimes for the third time.

_Could be dangerous.  
SH_

The adrenaline crackles through her blood, potent and all consuming and suddenly everything is magnesium bright. _Oh God yes._

“I’m meant to take you home,” the tall man with dark hair who accompanied her previously says. He hadn’t spoken to her the entire ride to the warehouse, preferring the company of his Blackberry which Jane was certain was surgically attached to his face. 

“Oh so you do talk?” she says dryly. He smiles with a blasé expression and adjusts the cuffs of his expensive Armani suit.

“It appears so, yes,” he says and opens the door for her. She tilts her head, and slides into the leather seat. He walks around and gets into the remaining passenger seat. 

“Where to?” he cocks a wry eyebrow.

“Baker Street. 221B, please,” she says, and he nods. He doesn’t inform the mysterious driver however, and instead pulls out his Blackberry again. “But we need to stop somewhere first.” He nods as she gives him another address, and in no time they pull up in front of her old bedsit.

It only takes her a moment to find what she was looking for, and she’s back out within minutes, slamming the car door behind her.

The man levels a knowing look at her, his sultry eyes sparkling. It’s vastly irritating. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I needed to get something from my old place,” she says. “I’m quite sure it’s none of your business.”

His lips quirk as he turns back to his mobile, and this irritates her even more.

“Who are you anyway?”

“Athos,” he replies.

“Is that’s even your real name?” she sighs.

“No,” he deadpans. Of course not.

Feeling cheeky and perhaps a bit bored of his arrogance she prods, “Where are the rest of the Musketeers, then?” His gaze snaps up to hers in surprise.

“You know where that’s from?” He seems impressed.

“Please. My Grandmother was French. Dumas was practically a staple at her house. Why don’t you go by your real name?” she queries.

He gets a wicked glint in his eye. “Matter of security. ‘What fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are suspended.’” 

“Ah yes. However; ‘All falsehood is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face,’” she returns with ease inspecting her fingernails with a quirk of her mouth.

After a pause of stunned silence on his end, Athos, or not-Athos leans forward in his seat. “‘As for herself, she returned to her seat with a smile of savage scorn upon her lips…’”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you,” Jane says smugly and turns her attention to look out the window. He leans back in his seat with a soft chuckle. 

London passed her by in its usual kaleidoscopic whirl against the cloak of dark that was evening. She tried to count the streetlights they drove under, but lost interest, her mind constantly drifting back to the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. Had it really only been yesterday that they’d met? It seemed like a lifetime ago, and already she felt something within her align. For the first time since coming home she felt in sync with everything around her, and she held out her left hand grinning when it remained perfectly still. This was mad. What would her therapist say? Well actually she probably knew the answer to that…

“Here we are, Miss,” Athos says suddenly, and she starts.

“Oh right,” she says and takes a moment to gather herself as Athos walks around and opens her door. She climbs out and stares at the front door of 221 B.

“So. Do you get any free time?” Athos says casually, folding his hands into his trouser pockets. He leans in slightly, whispering into her ear, “After all, ‘Love is the most selfish of all the passions,’ and I would be remiss if I lied and said I didn’t want you.”

“Me? _Why?_ ” Jane asks, trying to play it cool. Even though she was rather repulsed, it was always interesting to know what it was that attracted some of the most pompous arrogant sods to her like a bloody tractor beam. As if she screamed at the world that she wanted to be treated indecently by an arse. For fun, she flutters her lashes diffidently, and doesn’t miss how he licks his lips.

“There is something about you that is compelling. You’re intelligent even if it’s clear that your education when you were younger was that of the less fortunate.” He leans ever closer, and Jane can smell is expensive cologne. Public school educated ponce.

“You like that I can quote classic literature, do you? Is that a bit of foreplay then?”

“What if it was?” His hand comes up and strokes the side of her neck, and she freezes. This has gone from harmless flirting to something else very quickly. His hand by her throat echoes her most recent run-in, and reminds her of how fast she can lose control of the situation. She physically has to tamp down the urge to rip his arm out of its socket, and she focusses on wresting the ball back into her court..

“Well in that case…here’s my favourite quote: 'You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be charming if you would only back the fuck off.’ I changed it a bit at the end, but I hope you get the idea.” 

The shock registers on his face, but he doesn’t lower his hand. Instead he looks even more determined, and the fingers at the nape of her neck tighten slightly.

“I would do as she says,” comes a cool voice from behind her. “It would be _‘remiss’_ to underestimate how many ways a former Captain of the Army could fracture a collarbone.”

Jane whips around and is immensely grateful to see Sherlock casually locking up the door to the flat. He jogs down the stairs, and comes to stand next to her his eyes flicking over her face before he turns them onto the other man.

“I suggest you leave before I tell my brother about this, _Athos_.”

Athos takes a placating step back, and glances at Jane with a bored expression.

“I was just leaving. No need to involve him,” he says and pulls out his Blackberry once more. “Have a good evening, Jane. Sherlock.” And with a wry wink he gets back into the car and drives off.

“God what a wanker!” Jane exclaims gesticulating wildly much to the amusement to her flatmate. She stops abruptly when something clicks. “Wait…your brother?”

“Got there have you?” Sherlock says arching that stupid eyebrow of his in a condescending fashion. He sets off down the pavement in an even stride.

“So Mr. Creepy Warehouse Man is your brother?” She sounds dumb even to her own ears.

“Must you have nicknames for everyone? And a warehouse? Really? He is so cliché it’s almost painful.”

“He told me he was your enemy. Your _arch_ enemy.”

“Again. Cliché. Dull. I assume you’ll be spying on me from now on. There’s really nothing he doesn’t know, so it will probably be really boring for you. I lock the doors to my room and the bathroom, however, so that’ll be a bit of a dark spot. I’m sure he won’t mind,” he says nonchalantly as he turns a corner. Jane has to trot to keep up.

“What? Oh no I didn’t take the offer,” she says, and practically runs right into him when he comes to an abrupt halt and turns to face her.

“What do you mean you didn’t take it?”

“I — wait are you actually asking me why I refused to invade your privacy for money?”

“It would only make sense. And you’re not a wealthy woman. This would benefit you. All of the others took Mycroft’s offer.”

Jane…didn’t know that. “Good lord what kind of family do you belong to? I swear I will never complain about mine again. And did you say your brother’s name was Mycroft? Well I guess I’m not surprised,” she huffs. “I’m not going to spy on you, Sherlock, because it’s disrespectful. End of story.” He gives her a searching look, and Jane is taken aback by it.

“Yes well…you should have taken it. We could have split the fee. Think it though next time,” he says and she rolls her eyes. “Can I borrow your phone again? I need to send a text.” He starts off walking again.

“What happened to yours?” Jane grumbles, but hands it over anyway.

“Can’t risk the number being recognised. It’s on my website,” he says while snapping her phone shut and handing it back with a flourish. She immediately clicks through her sent texts to see what he wrote.

“Recognised…?” 

_Sent 9:06 PM  
What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out. 22 northumberland st. Please come._

“Wait does this have to do with the case?” she asks.

“Yes. _Her_ case to be exact.”

“Her case? Jennifer Wilson?”

“Yes! Her case! Her _pink case!_ Keep up, Jane. I hate repeating myself.”

“You found it? How?”

“It wasn’t hard. When the killer left Ms. Wilson to die at Lauriston Gardens, it most likely took him less than five minutes to realise his mistake. And since it’s statistically probable that our killer is male, carrying a suitcase in that obscene shade of pink would have drawn attention. So I narrowed it down to about a half a mile radius from the crime scene and strategically checked the skips near by. Took me less than twenty minutes, although I think I rather got lucky when I found it on the second go.”

“Well that’s…really quite clever of you,” she says genuinely impressed. “Wait. Why did you send that text?”

“Ah yes. Now you’re asking the _right_ questions. She was missing her phone, and it wasn’t at the crime scene so…”

“You think the murderer has it? You just sent a text to a murderer from _my_ phone?” He looks at her from the corner of his eye with an expression that reads: _‘well of course.’_ Great. “Where are we going?”

“Northumberland street’s a five minute walk from here,” he says, obscenely gleeful.

This time it’s Jane who stops short, and Sherlock almost doesn’t notice until she huffs out an exasperated laugh behind him.

“What?” he asks, and she simply shakes her head suppressing another giggle. _“What?”_

“Sergeant Donovon.”

“What about her?”

“She said you enjoy this…you get off on it. She said I should stay away from you.”

“What do you say?”

“I say it’s downright insane that I’m following a lunatic who has a rendezvous planned with a killer!”

“Yes. But I did say ‘dangerous,’” he says leaning in, and the tension suspended between them is electrifying. “Yet somehow, here you are.”

“Yes…here I am,” she couldn’t help but grin like an idiot, and was delighted to see it mirrored back to her. He quirks his eyebrow again.

“Hungry?” Before she can respond, he grabs her wrist and drags her around the corner, and practically shoves her into a quaint little Italian bistro.

“Mr. Holmes,” the waiter nods and ushers them to a table by the window.

“Thank you, Billy,” he says and takes off his scarf. Jane sinks into the chair opposite him, her back to the window, and to her dismay, the door. Old habits die hard, and she can’t help but try to angle her self so she can see the front door from the reflection in the glass of a picture hanging on the wall. 

Billy winks at her before he removes the plastic ‘Reserved’ place holder. She rolls her eyes.

“Sherlock!” a jovial voice booms, and a large man with a broad smile and greying hair clasps Sherlock’s hand warmly.

“Angelo,” Sherlock acknowledges and trains his gaze back out the window.

“Who is this lovely lady?” the man named Angelo says and kisses the top of Jane’s hand.

“Hm? Oh. Angelo, Jane. Jane Angelo. He owns the restaurant.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jane says, a small blush pinkening her cheeks.

“This man,” Angelo says clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. “He’s a good man. Got me off on a murder charge way back. I owe him my life.”

“I was able to prove to Lestrade that Angelo, their main suspect in a triple homicide, was in a completely different part of London house-breaking at the time.”

“He cleared my name, he did.”

“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock corrects.

“I could ‘ave gone to prison!” Angelo ignores.

“You _did_ go to prison.”

Angelo grabs a couple of menus and places them down on the table. “Anything you want, free of course. For you and your date.”

“Oh I’m not —” Jane pipes.

“I’ll get the candle! More romantic,” Angelo says his eyes lighting up, and he bustles around behind the counter. He comes back a second later with a cosy tea light.

“No really, we’re not — yes okay, thank you,” she huffs as he sets the candle between them. He gives her a thumbs up and she smiles at him painfully. “You are absolutely no bloody help, did you know?” she grumbles at Sherlock after he leaves.

“What?” he says distractedly, still staring out the window.

“Look. Let’s just get one thing straight,” she says slapping her plastic menu down getting his attention. “We are _flatmates._ That’s it.”

“Of course we are,” Sherlock says frowning in confusion. “What else would we be?”

“Good. All right. Good,” she says, her cheeks heating even further. She brings her menu up to her face to hide behind, as his eyes pierce into her. She lowers it again. “So you don’t have…have a…?”

“Have a what, Jane?” he says impatiently.

“A someone? A girlfriend?”

“Not my area,” he deadpans.

“Oh. Right. _Oh._ I mean…boyfriend then?”

“No!”

“Because it’s fine, really. I mean it would explain a lot, actually —”

“No! No boyfriend. No an –anybody!” he says looking positively flustered at this point as he trips over his words.

“Right. So you’re alone, then.”

“I consider myself married to my work.”

“You’re unattached.”

“Yes,” he says narrowing his eyes.

“Like me.” She smiles weakly, and ducks her head to look back at the menu. Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly, and before he can say anything else she plows on. “All I’m saying is it’s all fine. All of it.” She chances looking up at him, and he seems a little more at ease if a bit surprised.

“Good. Thank you,” he says, and pulls out his mobile. He picks Jane’s up from where she placed it on the table and examines them side by side, flicking through something on her screen and holding it up towards the ceiling. “Your phone doesn’t have the best signal in here.” He looks at her accusingly as if it were her fault, before giving up and putting them back on the table. “You might as well order something. We might be here a while.”

She turns to look behind her out at the street, grateful for the change in subject. “So you really think he’s going to show up?”

“Yes. He’s clever, but he’s made a mistake. I think he wants to get caught,” Sherlock’s eyes sparkle in the flicker of the candle light. “The clever ones, they’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?”

“It’s the frailty of genius! Genius warrants an audience, or else what’s the point?” he throws his hands up before bringing them down to ruffle his hair in a cross between excitement and agitation. He flops back against the backrest. “I recommend the prosciutto ravioli.”

“Hm? Oh, all right,” she says and places an order with Billy. “Aren’t you going to get anything?”

“I never eat when I’m on a case. Digestion. Slows down the brain work,” he replies popping the _k_ at the end of the sentence. As if to further illustrate this, he pulls out a small plastic wrapper and peels it apart. He rolls up his sleeve and sticks a round circle to his forearm.

“What’s that, then?” she asks noticing two others sticking to his pale skin.

“Nicotine patches. Helps me think.”

“There’s three of them.”

“It’s a three patch problem.”

“Do you want your heart to explode?” she says. Surely that much nicotine can’t be good for the body.

“It’s so hard to sustain a smoking habit in London, nowadays,” he replies.

“Well at least that’s good news for breathing, then.”

“Breathing’s boring,” he sighs. And she almost lectures him on the damage of excessive stimulants, when he sits bolt upright. “ _Oh_.”

“What? What is it?” she whips around.

“No don’t look!”

“You’re looking!” she says but turns back towards him.

“We can’t both look!” he says and leans forward eagerly. “It’s a taxi! Oh brilliant. Wait, _why_ is it brilliant? Just sitting there…no one getting in, no one getting out.” His eyes grow wide. “Who hunts in the midst of a crowd without being seen?”

Something clicks. “ _Oh!_ ” Jane says and looks over her shoulder once more just in time to see it start to pull away from the kerb.

“Yes, ‘oh!’ Come on!” Sherlock yells, and grabs his coat in a flurry of motion. He bursts out of the restaurant, and Jane is right on his heels stopping only long enough so as to not get hit by a car. Sherlock wasn’t so lucky, but he seemed to be adept at launching over moving vehicles because he ends up on the other side unharmed, tearing off after the cab now making its way down the street. Jane catches up somewhat, and she thinks she can make out the plate numbers.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” she yells at him as he runs down an alley.

“Four people are dead there isn’t time to call the police!” he shouts over his shoulder and increases his speed. As a burst of her own adrenaline fuels her, she struggles to contain the urge to throw her head back and laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation.

The chase leads them through buildings, up staircases, down alleys, and across _rooftops_ of all things — Sherlock taking to the task like some bloody gazelle — until they turn down one last street and almost get hit head on by the very cab they were looking for.

“Stop! Police!” Sherlock bellows and bangs the top of the cab while flashing a badge. “Open it!” Jane skids to a halt panting behind him. The passenger of the cab is stunned speechless, gaping at the wild looking consulting detective. Sherlock gives him a once over and practically growls. “No, _no_. It’s all wrong!”

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Look. _Look!_ Tan; teeth, what Californian? You’re a tourist just got in from LA, correct? Santa Monica?”

“How in the world do you know that?” Jane asks.

“It’s on his bloody luggage.” He flicks the tag on the suitcase angrily.

“Excuse me, but are you police or something?” the passenger asks finally able to find his voice.

“What? Yeah. Police,” Sherlock says flicking the badge in his direction again. “Welcome to London.” He gives a terse smile and walks off leaving Jane equally stunned.

“Er…any problems, don’t hesitate to – to let us know,” she says lamely and slams the cab door. She walks over to Sherlock who leans up against a building with his hands clasped and resting on top of his head in frustration. “So…not the murderer?”

“No. Not the murderer,” he says scuffing his shoe against the pavement.

“Mm. Good alibi, different country and all that.”

“As alibis go, yes,” Sherlock says and goes to tuck the badge into his pocket.

“Hang on where did you get that,” Jane questions as she nimbly plucks it from his fingers. She reads the name: “Detective Inspector Lestrade? Really?”

“I pickpocket your uncle when he’s annoying — what?” he asks almost affronted as Jane begins to giggle as her adrenaline high begins to fade. He fights a smile as her giggling turns into genuine laughter. “What?”

“Welcome to _London?_ You’re mad, did you know?” she says wiping her eyes. She can’t remember the last time she’s truly laughed like this. Sherlock’s lips twitch, and he can’t help but chuckle briefly himself.

“Have you got your breath back?” he asks as he gestures to where the passenger is now talking to an officer. The passenger points over to where they are stood, and Jane and Sherlock both look at each other before bolting off in tandem, laughter still in her blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!


	7. Colours and Cabbies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jane both begin to see the different sides to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I am most excited about. I hope you guys like it!

* * *

They should have gone back to the restaurant in case the killer made an appearance after all, but Sherlock was busy observing the enigmatic ex-Army doctor beside him as they both tore through the streets like manic school children. 

Jane’s laugh was infectious, and Sherlock couldn’t help joining in every time it bubbled to the surface, bright like champagne. The exertion caused bright patches of scarlet to bloom on high on her cheeks, and every now and again she swiped her hair out of her eyes as it was beginning to come undone from the elastic used to keep it back. It made her look years younger, and the gleam in her hazel eyes blazed like a furnace. There was no doubting that she was crazy…a good kind of crazy. He was stunned to realise that this was in fact, a reflection of what he knew to be true of himself. It was for this reason that he led her to one of his favourite places in all of London.

“Where are we going?” she asks easily falling in stride beside him.

“You’ll see,” he says.

“Is it for the case?”

He doesn’t respond, and instead sets a brisk pace. They travel in silence, eventually making it to Grosvenor Square. They take a small service alley behind an ornate and official looking building. He pulls out his ring of keys and selects the square brass one and slides it easily into the lock of a steel door.

“Where did you get that key?” Jane asks in an amused voice as she follows him through the dark kitchens.

“Nicked it from Mycroft. He won’t miss it.” He leads her out into a narrow corridor, and she stops dead.

“Hang on…” she says staring at the red and white flag on the wall in front of her. “Did we just break into the Canadian Embassy?” Sherlock stands next to her and crosses his arms regarding the flag with its brazen maple leaf with mock intensity.

“Well I’m no detective or anything, but basing my assumptions purely on this display of Canadian nationalism I would hazard a guess to say that you would be correct, my Dear Watson.”

“Berk,” Jane says and elbows him in the ribs. “Glad to see you speak fluent sarcasm, then. I was beginning to worry you didn’t have a sense of humour.”

“What can I say? You’re a bad influence, now come on,” he says, grabbing her wrist and practically dragging her up the stairwell at the end of the corridor. He’s surprised, yet not, at the fact that she doesn’t even blink, too caught up in the adventure to consider the risk they are taking at being caught. Or perhaps…maybe the danger’s the point? He grins at her from over his shoulder as he slips the key into another lock, and they finally break out into the open air on top of the roof.

“Penchant for rooftops?” Jane asks as she leans forward slightly to look over the edge with mild curiosity. For some reason this causes Sherlock’s heart to lurch, and he has to actively restrain himself from flinging out a hand and dragging her back from the side. 

He doesn’t know what compels him to say it, but before he can stop himself he answers, “Not really, no. I hate heights,” then proceeds to sit himself on the ledge with his feet dangling in the empty air. It takes him a moment to realise how unabashedly honest he tends to be around Jane, and he’s not sure if he regrets it or not.

“Well that’s a bit counterintuitive,” she chuckles and sidles in beside him.

Sherlock nods, and folds his hands in his lap. “ _L’appel du vide_.”

“The Call of the Void,” she remarks sagely, and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“It helps me think,” he says. Somewhere in the distance Big Ben chimes letting them know it’s ten o’clock. “There’s something I’m missing. The killer…he transports his victims somehow. Discreetly, and by gaining their trust almost instantly. So he presents himself as more than just a friendly stranger. More than just another faceless person sharing a simple cab.”

“Shouldn’t we be back at the restaurant?” she asks.

“Oh they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway,” he sighs.

“So what were we doing back there?”

“Passing the time.”

Jane snorts. “I see.”

They sit there in companionable silence simply looking out across London, and Sherlock’s mind drifts. He keeps getting distracted by the smallest of things: the sounds of the street, the number of street lamps on the block (there are twenty-six), and the way Jane’s shoulder lightly brushes his. It’s interesting. He’s always been adverse to human contact, however, he finds that he doesn’t much mind Jane’s proximity. She’s neutral territory and non-judgmental, taking things as they come without assumption or recourse. Which was why he didn’t mind when she reaches over and carefully grabs his left wrist, pushing up his sleeve.

“I think three is one too many, don’t you?” she says and peels off the nicotine patches one by one. “You’re like my dad was when he had too much coffee. All nerves and over stimulated. You’ll feel better in a moment, and you’ll possibly be able to think a little clearer.” She lets the breeze take them, and they flutter away into the night.

Sherlock was about to give an indignant retort, when he’s promptly cut off by the sudden pounding in his head, and concedes that she’s perhaps maybe a little bit right. (Not that he would admit the fact.) He grunts instead and fixes his sleeve, smoothing the fabric of his coat. 

Suddenly a flood light beams up at them from the ground, and a police officer yells at them from his loud speaker.

“Oi! Who’s up there?”

“Shit!” Jane hisses tucking her legs back from the edge as Sherlock does the same, receiving a hefty dose of vertigo at the sudden movement. His heart hammers in his chest as the world tilts and sways, the ground so far below swimming in and out of his vision. Snickering, Jane grabs him by his coat collar and helps him steady himself back on solid ground, and then they’re off again, dashing towards the access door and down the stairs.

“No we can’t go through the kitchens again, we’ll have to go out the front door,” Sherlock says grabbing Jane by the hand and swinging her around in the right direction.

“You just think they’re going to let us _leave through the front door?_ ” Jane asks incredulously. “What about the people who actually live here?”

“They’re gone for another fortnight, staff won’t be in until Monday. Even Ambassadors need a holiday. And they’ll be waiting for us in the alley. This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve been caught doing this,” he grins wickedly. “Although this will be the first time I’ve attempted the front door thing. Let’s hope my theory is right, and that they are idiots.”

“Well that’s just bloody _marvellous_ ,” she says sarcastically.

They creep through the stately foyer, and Sherlock takes out his key again. He turns it with a click and pushes the brass handle down. The security system lets out an alarming chirp and Jane gasps. Sherlock shushes her, and rushes to the electronic panel on the wall. He punches in a basic code that he gleaned from one of Mycroft’s files, and the chirping stops. Jane puts a hand over her heart in relief, and they both slip out the front door as if they belonged there all along. They get a half a block managing to stroll casually before the adrenaline overtakes them and they take off down the road all the way back to Baker Street.

“Oh my god,” Jane pants as she leans wearily against the wall in the hallway of 221B. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock replies leaning on the wall likewise next to her. He takes off his coat and flings it on the banister while undoing his scarf and letting it hang lax around his neck.

“Yeah but that wasn’t just me!” she chuckles and hangs up her jacket on one of the hooks. “What kind of person has a skeleton key to the Canadian Embassy?”

“Mycroft. Arrogant sod. He occupies a minor position in the British Government.”

“Minor?”

“He is the British Government,” Sherlock amends. “Got his finger in one too many pies, that sort of thing.”

“Ah. Of course.” she says.

“It’s why his diets always end up failing,” Sherlock remarks, and they both erupt into laughter again until Sherlock gets a stitch in his side. 

He’s always chased after the heart pounding danger that usually came with The Work, but this was the first time he’s actually had _fun_ doing it. Fun having a partner, in fact. Cocaine never gave him that. The revelation is such a shock to him that he almost doesn’t hear the door bell buzzing.

“I’ll get it,” Jane says shaking her head and he nods, his mind whirring at the possibilities. She comes back a moment later. “That was Angelo. Apparently we left our phones at the restaurant,” she says, and without thinking she hands him his mobile.

Sherlock takes it, and his eyes flash up when he realises. “Jane you’re a wonder,” he says.

“What do you mean?” she frowns.

“Mrs. Hudson! Jane _will_ take the room upstairs!” he shouts, and can’t help the insane grin from crawling across his face.

“Will I, now? What makes you so sure?” she says folding her arms.

He comes up close to her face to face. (Gotta love this part.) “You gave me my phone.”

“Yes, and?” she says, the playfulness from earlier now being replaced with suspicion.

“ _My_ phone,” he emphasises. She stares at him like he grew a second head, and he rolls his eyes. “Do I have to spell everything out — okay…we have _identical_ phones!”

“ _And?_ ” she says again, becoming impatient. He looks at her equally exasperated, and waits for (ah there it is) the comprehension to dawn across her face. She yanks her mobile out of her pocket. “Mine’s red,” she says in a hushed voice as she stares down at it. Then a little louder, “Mine is _red_. And yours is black! Oh my god!”

“Knew you’d get there eventually,” he remarks, supremely pleased with himself.

“Blue!” she exclaims. “You’re scarf is blue. Well actually more of a navy colour but that’s hardly the sodding point, is it?” she smiles and she grabs one end to emphasise the fact. She rubs it between her palms before flicking it around his neck like the Red Baron. “You were right, it is like Christmas!”

He can’t help but chuckle at that. “Psychosomatic. See? It’s in your head after all.” He winks.

“Oh look at that,” she gasps, a seriousness coming over her when their eyes meet. 

The collision of their gaze causes everything to still around them, and she looks at him with such intensity the breath literally leaves his lungs. He’s never felt so… _penetrated_ ; so bare in front of another person before, (no, not even Mycroft) and it bloody terrifies him. It’s mostly brilliant, though. Incandescent. He briefly wonders if this is what it’s like for other people when he deduces them, and for the first time he understands what it is for someone to instantly strike the core of your being with just a glance. He’s utterly transfixed.

“Your eyes…” she says slowly. Her hands come up to either side of his face and gently hold his head steady. They are warm and slightly calloused, and they leave his skin tingling. “I thought they were grey, or blue-grey rather, but they’re so much _more_ than that. There’s green and gold in there too…” she trails off, still searching his depths. He looks back and sees the green and amber in hers. They gleam like two fiery coals, and he feels set alight. He sucks in a sharp breath as the sudden fire in his blood reminds him of a high he’s never felt before. (Better than cocaine ever was. Much better.) “They’re beautiful,” she states as if it were a simple fact. 

Suddenly, her eyes grow wide in realisation and she drops her hands, blinking rapidly. A lopsided blush colours her cheeks, and she breaks eye contact by looking hurriedly to the floor. He clears his throat.

Before either one of them can say anything, however, the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat bangs open.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson says, tears making her voice strained and tight. “What have you done?”

“What’s wrong?” he asks trying to clear his head a little.

“Upstairs. They just barged in and started tossing things about. I tried —”

He doesn’t hear the rest of her sentence, already bounding up the steps two at a time, and barreling through the door to the sitting room.

It’s utter chaos. About half a dozen Yarders are rummaging through his things and messing with his equipment. Who knows what they’ve misplaced or destroyed by now? 

And there’s Lestrade lounging in his armchair looking pleased as proverbial punch.

“What are you doing?” he demands, his voice shaking with fury.

Lestrade closes the book he was reading and tosses back into Jennifer Wilson’s pink case that was sitting open on the chair in front of him. “I’m not stupid, you know,” he says with a smug expression. “I knew you’d find it.”

“You can’t just break into my flat!” Sherlock snarls and yanks his scarf off from around his neck.

“And you can’t with hold sodding evidence!” Lestrade shouts getting to his feet. “And besides, nobody _broke_ in to your damn flat. This, for all intents and purposes, is a drugs bust.”

“Come on!” Jane guffaws behind him, and Sherlock whips around to see her standing in the midst of the sitting room with her arms crossed. “There is no way this guy can be a junkie. Have you met him?” 

Sherlock walks up to her and lightly squeezes her elbow. “Jane…”

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day long and you wouldn’t find anything,” she say defiantly glaring at her uncle. The absolute faith she has in him makes his stomach clench painfully. His thoughts drift to the small untouched packet of white powder tucked away in the hidden compartment of his violin case.

“You should shut up now,” he hisses at her, and she finally looks at him, realisation creeping into her eyes. The disappointment in her expression does even more unpleasant things to his gut.

“No. You?” she says with something akin to betrayal. Sherlock presses his lips together, silently pleading with his eyes for her to drop it.

“Are these _human eyeballs?_ ” a nasally voice says coming out of the kitchen. Sherlock groans.

“You brought Anderson? On a drugs bust?”

“Oh he wanted to come,” Lestrade says darkly.

“No seriously. They were in the microwave,” Anderson says again, his face a faint shade of green.

“They’re an experiment, now put them back!” Sherlock growls.

“Same with the femur I found in the bath tub?” Donovon remarks, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. She seems quite amused.

“Just leave it,” Lestrade says with a grimace. “Keep looking!” he orders and smiles menacingly at Sherlock.

“You won’t find anything! I’m clean,” Sherlock grumbles, and absolutely refuses to let his eyes wander to the brown case sitting on the desk. “I don’t even smoke anymore.” He feels utterly defeated, and can’t bring himself to look in Jane’s direction. He doesn’t have to however, when he feels a timid pat on his shoulder. He lets himself think it’s a little like forgiveness, and his chest loosens a fraction. Greg’s expression softens a little, and he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Look, help us properly and I’ll call off my sniffer dogs,” he reasons. “We found ‘Rachel’.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to his. “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name?”

“Who cares?” Anderson chimes in again from around the corner. He leans against the door frame. “We found her case. Conveniently in the hands of our favourite psychopath.”

“I’m a high functioning sociopath, Anderson, do your research,” he says waspishly, and begins to pace rapidly across the floor. “You need to bring her in for questioning straight away. _I_ need to question her.”

“Well that’s going to be a little tricky seeing as how she’s dead.”

“Excellent! There has to be a connection, then!” Sherlock exclaims and claps his hands together.

“I doubt it. She’s been dead for fourteen years. Or rather, she was never alive. She was a still born.” Lestrade says, and Jane sucks in a sharp breath.

“What? No…that can’t be right…” Sherlock says. Every permutation his brain managed to conjure was rendered moot at this fact, and he tugs at his hair in frustration. “Why would she do that? Why?”

“Why would she think of her dead daughter in her dying moment? Yeah I’m seeing the sociopath thing now,” Anderson says and carelessly drops a Sodoku cube on the floor.

“No, she didn’t just _think_ of her daughter, she _scratched_ her name into the floor with her _fingernails_ ,” Sherlock says incensed. “It would have hurt. She was trying to tell us something.”

“You said the victims all took the poison themselves,” Jane starts, and Sherlock snaps to her. “What if he makes them take it? Like by talking to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. (Useless.)

“Yes but that was ages ago! It’s not due to some misplaced guilt; she was a serial adulterer! Why would she still be upset about her still-born daughter?” Sherlock says and he flings out his arm as if to concede his point, letting it fall against his thigh in agitation. 

Jane reels back and grows quiet, and suddenly very pale. She swallows a few times against the shock, and Sherlock finally notices the deadly silence that perpetrates throughout the rest of the once noisy flat. He thinks over what he said, and shuffles next to Jane. 

“Not…good?” he asks in a whisper.

“Bit not good, yeah,” she says pinching her forefinger and thumb together to illustrate. He clears his throat and turns back to Lestrade, hands clasped behind his back.

“Think about it, all of you,” he starts off again with intensity. “If you were murdered, if you _knew_ you were going to die, what would you say?”

“Please, God, let me live?” Jane says weakly.

“No, no. Use your imagination!”

“Don’t have to,” she says and a thunderous expression comes over her face. He lowers his eyes furtively.

“No but she was clever! Really clever, she had a string of lovers — _she was trying to tell us something!_ ”

The pieces weren’t aligning, the ephemera of the case (pink, Rachel, daughter, still born, suicide) was clanging through his mind chaotically. Jane kept her gaze trained on him, and he could feel it boring into his skin, and his stomach lurched again with something akin to guilt. He spins away from her and tries to focus. There was something _something_ —

“SHUT UP! Everybody don’t move, don’t think, don’t even _breathe_ , I need to think! Anderson turn around you’re putting me off,” Sherlock shouts as he slams his eyes shut.

Anderson makes a petulant noise, but Lestrade cuts him off. “Turn your back!”

“Seriously?”

“Your back! Now!” he roars coming closer to Sherlock.

Something, something. She was a liar, vindictive even. Why would she stay in an unhappy marriage for ten plus years? Rachel, Rachel, rache, revenge. Ironic but not important…or was it?

“ _Oh_.” Sherlock’s eyes fly open as the facts come together. “She planted it on her killer! Oh yes she was clever wasn’t she? More clever than you lot, and she’s dead! She’s led us right to him!”

“She has? How?” Lestrade asks.

“Ye — what do you mean how?” They all stare at him blankly. “Rachel!” Still nothing. “God, look at you lot, you’re all so vacant. It must be so relaxing to not be me, no Rachel is not a name at all.”

“Then what is it?” Jane says at the end of her patience, dragging her fingers through her hair that now hangs loose around her face.

“Jane, on the suit case is a luggage tag. Read me the email address there.” Sherlock instructs and turns on his laptop. “God I’ve been so stupid, she traveled constantly, but there was no computer among her possessions, so she did all of her business on her phone.” Jane rattles off the email address and his fingers fly over the keyboard. “Right so she has a smart phone linked with her personal account, and when we put this in like so…anyone want to hazard a guess as to what her password is?”

“Rachel,” Jane breathes coming to stand over his shoulder.

“Exactly!” he says triumphantly as he punches the enter key.

“So we can read her emails, big deal,” Anderson scoffs.

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you’ll subtract from the intelligence of the entirety of the human race,” Sherlock says dismissively, as he pulls up a map. “It’s a smart phone; meaning it has GPS.” The little blue crosshairs icon zoomed in and in and in until the map started to render. Sherlock jumps to his feet impatiently. “Lestrade, you’ll need to get a team together, perhaps a helicopter. We have to hurry the phone’s battery won’t last forever.”

“We just have a map reference, Sherlock. Not even a name. S’not much to go on.”

“Yes but it’s a start.”

“Sherlock…” Jane says slowly, now sitting in the chair he just vacated.

Sherlock doesn’t hear and instead tents his fingers and touches them to his lips, his mind racing a mile a minute. “At least it will narrow it down. It’s the first proper lead we’ve had so far.”

“Sherlock. Look at this,” Jane says again, and the tone of her voice snaps him out of his musings.

“What, where is it?”

“It’s here,” she says looking up at him. “At 221B Baker Street.”

“No…no that’s impossible…” Sherlock falters spinning around as if the answer were written on the wall.

“Perhaps it fell out when you brought the case in,” Lestrade says and makes his way over to the open luggage.

“Me? Miss something like that? Impossible,” Sherlock says.

“Everyone! We’re looking for a phone!” Lestrade calls out and the chaos starts up again.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson’s timid voice squeaks out from the doorway.

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouts. He puts his hands to his temples in attempts to squeeze the answers out.

 _‘Who do we trust even if we don’t know them?’_ he thinks to himself. Despite the noise in the flat, his thoughts have gone still.

_‘Who passes unnoticed where ever they go?’_

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says again, and tugs at his sleeve. He bats her away.

_‘Who hunts in the midst of a crowd?’_

“Sherlock!”

“MRS. HUDSON!" he yells. She jumps back, and puts a hand to her lips.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…your taxi’s here.”

His phone chimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like a reference to the way Jane describes Sherlock's eye I have provided [this](http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/30800000/Benedict-s-Eyes-benedict-cumberbatch-30840195-500-410.png) for your viewing pleasure. Apparently our good friend Benedict has a condition called heterochromia, and it's damn sexy.
> 
> Still working on the rest of this, but for now I am all caught up. I shall post a quick as possible. Thanks for reading!


	8. Call Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes missing, and Jane gets a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done with this part! Thank you anyone who has read or commented. The feedback is marvellous.

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Jane watches as Sherlock suddenly goes very still, his knuckles white as he grips his mobile. Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and in a fluster makes her way back to her flat.

“Sherlock?” Jane says. “You all right?” He doesn’t look up at her until she touches his elbow to get his attention.

“What?” he says, a far away look in his eye.

“Are you okay?” she repeats.

“Yes. I – I’m fine,” he says and slips his mobile into his trouser pocket. She’s unconvinced, but drops it.

“So how can the phone be here in the flat, then?”

“I don’t know,” he says, his gaze fixed intently out in the hall. She tries to see what he’s looking at, and finding nothing she tries a different tack.

“Do you want I should call it?” she nudges.

“Hm?” he says moving across the room as if in a daze. “Yes. You do that.” He grabs his scarf.

She looks at him suspiciously. “Where are you going?”

“Out. I need air. I’ll be back,” he says. She grabs his arm.

“Sherlock…”

“What?” he snaps and shakes her off. She presses her lips into a grim line. Seeming to misinterpret this he rolls his eyes. “Oh perhaps I should mention I didn’t kill her?”

“I never said you did,” she says shocked.

“Why not? It’s a perfectly reasonable conclusion,” he says forcefully almost daring her to prove him right. That feral look he had earlier when Lestrade accused him of drug possession returned, and she frowns.

“Do people usually think you’re the murderer?”

“On occasion,” he says and lowers his gaze while shifting uncomfortably. She ducks her head so she can look him in the eyes, and tries to give him her most disarming smile. 

“Be careful, then. There’s a killer out there somewhere,” she says.

“Don’t I know it,” he murmurs distractedly, and with that he heads down the stairs.

Jane walks over to the window and watches as Sherlock talks to an unassuming man leaning against the side of a cab. Sherlock puts his hands in his pockets and takes a confident step towards him. The man nods and crosses his arms over his chest, and then makes his way around to the driver side door. Sherlock stands there for a moment, and then gets in, but not before one last glance over his shoulder and up at the window where Jane was stood. She watches as it pulls away from the kerb. 

“He just drove off in a cab,” Jane says incredulously, and turns around to Lestrade.

“He does that,” Sally Donovan says sourly. “We’re wasting our time with that crack pot. Again.” 

Jane doesn’t buy it. Yes, Sherlock was flighty, but there was no way he would just abandon something like this when they were smack in the middle. She didn’t know him very well, but she thought she knew enough about him to gather that much. Instead, she dials Jennifer Wilson’s phone and presses it to her ear. “It’s just ringing out,” she tells Lestrade.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Then that means it isn’t in the flat.”

“What if I try the search again?”

“What does it matter?” Donovan groans. “He’s a _freak_ , Inspector, and he’ll always jerk you around. We’re wasting our time here,” she reiterates and plants her hands on her hips in defiance.

Lestrade breathes heavily through his nose. “All right, everyone pack it up. Done here.” He turns to look at Jane, narrowing his eyes a fraction before gathering his coat.

“Hang on, Greg,” she says grabbing his shoulder. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Oh?” he says mildly. His attempt at looking innocent is shockingly shit.

“Drugs bust?” she levels, and he looks away. “Christ, Greg, I don’t need protecting from someone like Sherlock. Grown woman; joined the Army; remember?”

“You don’t know him like I do, Janey,” he starts.

“No. Don’t — don’t do that,” she cuts him off and a question blooms in his eyes. “Pretend you’re obligated to look out for me,” she elaborates.

“It’s not pretending…”

“What then? Guilt? Because that’s a hell of a lot worse,” she says raising her chin.

“No. No it’s just…seeing you today…you remind me so much of your father, Jane I nearly forgot,” he smiles a little sadly. She feels her defensiveness fade a little. “The thing is, I’ve known Sherlock Holmes for five years, and he has a sordid past if I’ve ever seen one. He’s bright, but arrogant and he doesn’t care about anything or anybody. But today, he was different and I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sherlock was…he was practically in a frenzy the way he went on at the crime scene today. I thought he was high again at first, but he didn’t show all the usual signs. Add the fact that he insisted on you as his colleague…it was odd. He’s never been like this with anyone before. It got me worrying that he might be using you for something — something you were unawares of.”

“All he’s using me for is the rent,” she says, unsure of what to make of this. “You know you’re the second person tonight to take steps to invade his privacy, right?” Lestrade looks surprised at this, and actually a bit contrite.

“Look. Maybe I went a little overboard with the drugs bust thing, I will admit.”

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot,” he concedes. “But you need to promise me something.”

“Okay…?” she says squaring her shoulders.

“Just, if you need anything, anything at all, please let me know. Now that you’re back in London, I want – I want us to catch up. Make up for lost time. And keep me in the loop with Sherlock. Despite the fact I don’t trust him and the part where he does everything to royally piss me off, I worry about him too.”

“You do?” Jane asks, curious. “Why?”

“Because. He’s a great man. Knew it from the first time I met him. But I think one day, if we’re really lucky, he could be a good one too.”

“Yeah,” Jane smiles. “Yeah.”

“I’ve got to be getting back to the Yard. Let me know if anything happens, yeah?”

“All right, Greg,” Jane says and watches as the people file out of the flat one by one. She blows a deep breath out of her mouth and goes to sit back at the desk. The crosshairs icon has disappeared again to be replaced by the clock with the spinning hands. She goes to shut it and perhaps make some tea when her mobile rings. She frowns when she sees Sherlock’s number show up, and she swipes to unlock it.

“Sherlock? Where are you?” she asks, but gets no reply. The only thing she can hear is a great deal of background noise and a pair of voices. “Sherlock?” She presses the mobile to her ear even harder to make out what’s going on, and what she hears makes her blood freeze in her veins.

Sherlock’s voice comes through, unmistakable if not muffled:

 _“So you just walk your victims in? How?”_ After a moment, _“Oh. Dull.”_

 _“Don’t worry it gets better,”_ comes the sound of another voice with a slight cockney accent. Jane increases the volume on her phone to the max, and frantically hits the refresh button on the laptop willing the GPS tracker to go faster.

 _“You can’t just make people take their own lives at gunpoint,”_ Sherlock says, and Jane’s heart leaps to her throat.

 _“With most people yes I can. But with you, you're just mad enough that I won't even need a gun…”_ the other man says, but Jane doesn’t hear the rest over the sound of the computer’s cheery bing. The blue icon has stilled over a spot on the map, (finally, _finally!_ ) and without further ado, she snatches it and sprints out of the flat. 

She still keeps the phone to her ear even though she can’t hear much of what’s going on, but she nearly sobs in relief when she manages to hail a cab on the first go.

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College! Hurry!” she barks at the cabbie. It dawns on her as she presses the phone back to her ear that she this would be the time where she should consider calling the police, but she can’t make the call without hanging up on Sherlock. She’s at a cross roads with nothing to do but listen and hope she gets there in time. She nearly screams in frustration when she realises she can’t hear a bloody thing, aside from the burrs and susurrus of a conversation, and the constant scrape of what is undoubtedly a coat pocket. “Sherlock you arse, move! Do something! Why didn’t you call the police?” she yells loud enough for the cabbie to jump and glare at her in the rearview mirror. 

Then, just like a scene from a particularly bad movie, her phone loses signal and the call drops. 

“Buggering _fuck!_ ” she hisses, and holds her mobile out the window. When she manages to get a few bars she doesn’t hesitate to call Greg this time. All it does is ring out, so she mashes her thumb into the ‘end call’ button and dials 999. She’s halfway explaining the details to a woman on the other end who obviously doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of a fucking emergency, when the ‘call waiting’ pings in her ear. She hits the ‘accept call’ with shaking fingers and holds her breath.

 _“You ready to play, Mister ‘Olmes?”_ the voice on the other end says. It’s clearer now, and Jane can hear every word.

_“Play what? It’s a fifty-fifty chance.”_

_“You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. It isn’t chance, Mister ‘Olmes. It’s chess. And here’s the first move.”_ There is a faint scraping sound. _“Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? What do you think? Is it a bluff? A double bluff? A triple bluff?”_

_“Still just chance. Luck. I prefer not to gamble.”_

_“It’s not chance. It’s genius. I can see ‘ow people think, like a map inside my head. They’re all so stupid…even you. Ah but you’re a proper genius, so I know how you feel.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I know you get bored, don’ you? So clever…but what’s the point if you can’t prove it, eh? Ever the addict. This right ‘ere is what it’s about. You’d do anything…anything at all…to stop. Being. Bored. You’re not bored now are you?”_ There is silence on Sherlock’s end, and for a heart-stopping moment Jane worries that it’s all over, that she’s too late. But then, he speaks up again.

_“You’ve risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?”_

_“Come on. Time to play.”_

_“Oh I am playing. This is me. This is my move,”_ Sherlock says just as the cab pulls up in front of the college.

“That’s right, Sherlock, keep him talking,” Jane murmurs and bursts out of the cab.

To her dismay, the taxi that Sherlock no doubt came in is parked between two identical buildings. She looks to each one trying to discern which one he could be in, and the crushing reality closes in on her: if she doesn’t pick the right one, Sherlock will die. She doesn’t know how she knows this, but she does in her heart of hearts. 

Taking a deep breath, she pulls the gun out from the small concealed holster at the small of her back letting the reassuring weight and the smell of gun oil clear her mind. She just had to focus on the task at hand. She had to make a decision. 

Summoning her inner solider, she marches forward.


	9. Frailty of Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and the Cabbie have a chat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: Allusions to suicide.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and the comments on this story! I wasn't expecting so many so fast! I am truly grateful, and I always appreciate what you guys have to say! Enjoy the conclusion! xxx Honey

* * *

The cabbie, whose name Sherlock has learned is Jefferson Hope, smiles an affable smile. It’s false, of course, and he can see through the façade like water. There’s something under his unassuming exterior, something that he’s missing…

His mind drifts back to the first time he met Jane, and how wrong he was about her, and he vows not to make the same mistake twice with this man. Like rapid-fire he catalogues the knowable:

shaving foam neglected behind left ear — lives alone;  
clothes, clean but old (at least…three years?) keeping up appearances but not planning for the future;  
photo of children in the cab (old photo, new frame) no wife — deceased? (Torn edge.) Ah divorced;  
kamikaze murder spree (?);  
revenge? (Too pedestrian; hackneyed.) Boredom? (Possible.) (Strike that. Substitute love.) 

Love, why love? Ah yes….

“Three years ago. Is that when they told you?” Sherlock asks.

“Told me wot?” Hope says.

“That you’re dying?” Sherlock leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach, being careful not to muffle the phone hiding up the sleeve of his coat. For the first time, Hope’s confident smile falters.

“Brain aneurysm. Right up ‘ere,” he says tapping his temple. “Any breath could be my last.”

“So because you’re dying you’ve murdered four people?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ve _outlived_ four people. That’s the most fun you can have on an aneurysm,” he smiles. 

“Wrong! It’s all off,” Sherlock says leaning forward. “You aren’t bitter. If you were bitter about dying you wouldn’t have the motivation to leave your bed in the morning. This — what you’re doing — is calculated, driven by much stronger emotions. Anger? Maybe. You are estranged from your kids not by your decision. The wife’s then. She left you, took the kids, and it still _hurts_. But it’s not just anger. Anger is explosive and unpredictable; it has no concern of its ramifications. But you…you are careful. Exacting. You have _purpose_.” Hope’s eyes grow wide and Sherlock grins a grin of pure malice. “You see, Mr. Hope. Love is a tricky emotion. It’s is a much more _vicious_ motivator. Somehow this is all for your kids.”

Hope’s face pales considerably, but he manages to look Sherlock in the eye. “Oh you’re good. Real good. He told me about you, but I almost forgot.”

“He? What do you mean He?”

“You’ve got a fan, Mister ‘Olmes. Someone’s been following your work,” Hope grins and folds his hands on top of the table. The fluorescent classroom lights glint off of his glasses making his face look hollow.

“Who would want to follow me?”

“Come on. You’re too modest!”

“I’m really not.” 

The men square off for a moment in steely silence before Hope finally breaks it with a scoff.

“Love,” he spits, his demeanour changing. “What do you know about love anyhow? My wife did leave me, like you said. Kids took her side. Won’t see me. Probably won’t even come to my funeral in the end. But I do love them. They won’t get much when I die, so what’s a bloke to do?”

“Enlighten me,” Sherlock drawls.

“You see I’ve got all this genius rattling around in my head and no idea ‘ow to use it. So I consulted a specialist,” the grin returns, only this time more sinister. Sherlock doesn’t dare interrupt. The lunatic is on a roll now, and if he’s patient he’ll reveal everything. (Frailty of genius.) “He told me he would sponsor me if I found a way to catch your eye. For every one I kill more money goes to my kids after I’m gone. It’s only too bad you caught on so quick and ended my fun before I even got started. But ‘ere’s the best part: I’ve got you now and my kids’ll want for nothing ever again.”

“A consulting _criminal_ ,” Sherlock breathes. (Novel.) “So what am I? The prized stag? The big fish?”

“Summat like that. You see, my sponsor wants you out of the picture. You’re too smart for your own good.”

“Give me a name,” Sherlock says suddenly.

“’Fraid not. And you’re out of moves,” Hope says and pulls out the gun again. “Time to choose now.”

Sherlock stares down the barrel of the gun. “Are these my only options?”

“If you’re back to numbers, it’s either pick out of fifty-fifty, or pick the gun. The second option isn’t really chance at all, and not even fun. I know how you like fun.”

“Well then I’m going to have to disappoint you. I choose the gun.”

“You sure?”

“Oh yes.”

“Don’ want to phone a friend?” he arches and eyebrow.

The compact weight in his coat sleeve makes him want to chuckle at the irony. “The _gun_.”

Hope narrows his eyes, and pulls the trigger. A tiny flit of flame pokes out of the barrel, and Sherlock stands perfunctorily. (Gun lighter. Cliché.)

“I know what a real gun looks like, don’t be stupid,” he says.

“None of the others did.”

“Obviously. Well this has been…interesting. I look forward to the court case,” he says and strides to the door, slipping his phone out of his sleeve in order to fire a text off to Lestrade if Jane hasn’t already. Before he gets to the door, Hope speaks up one last time.

“Just so I know…did you figure it out? Which one was which?”

Sherlock pauses and turns back around.

“Of course I did. Child’s play.”

“Ah. Okay. So which one is it then?” Sherlock scowls, but doesn’t say anything. “Go on. Prove it. Prove you’re cleverer than me. Play the _game_.” Sherlock doesn’t move. “I said I won’t cheat. I’ll take what ever you don’t. And besides, what’s out there anyway that’s more interesting than this?”

“How about living?”

“Bollocks. We both know you don’t care about that,” Hope says, his eyebrows raised. “What does it really matter anyway? If you choose wrong at least the tedium will stop, am I right?”

“I won’t choose wrong because I know which one is poison,” Sherlock says. “I’m just not sure I’m the type to send another man to his death when a lifetime in prison is so much more rewarding. What’s left of your life, that is.”

“That’s a lie too. You’re bored of me already. You don’t care what ‘appens to me after all this.” Hope smiles and tilts his head. “Come on.”

Defiantly, Sherlock strides across the room and snatches the glass bottle in front of Hope and makes his way back towards the middle of the room with his back to the door.

“Oh ho! Isn’t that interesting?” Hope remarks and picks up the remaining bottle. “You sure you’re right?”

“I have said so, yes. Like I mentioned before I don’t like to gamble,” Sherlock says and holds the bottle to the light. It was identical in every way to the other one, but if he knew Hope like he thought he did, he knew his tell had been in the way he mentioned a ‘double bluff.’ The mention of a ‘triple bluff’ was a hasty afterthought, like a smoke screen to throw him off the scent. He was more than sure…

He twists off the cap and pours out the pill, and Hope does the same.

“You know the funny thing about gamblin’, is you gotta know when the other man is waiting for you to mess up,” Hope says casually and inspects his own pill. Sherlock starts, his eyes flashing to the other man. There was a curious edge to Hope's words, and an odd coldness begins to wash over him. “I’m good at gamblin’,” Hope continues, pinning Sherlock with his piercing gaze. “I told yer I knew how people think. I know ‘ow you think, Mister ‘Olmes. I know ‘ow you get when your brain is just about rotted out of your skull and the only thing you can do to keep from going mad is turn to that bliss you inject into your veins. You hate monotony, but you’re trapped by your own futility. Isnt’ that right? It’s a curse, innit? A damn ruddy _curse_ ,” Hope says, and despite the fact, Sherlock can’t keep his insidious words from creeping into the crevices of his mind. Finding purchase in the chinks of his smooth armour. “I should know. It’s _hateful_ , this. Living. What’s the point?”

“The – the point?” Sherlock hears himself say. His voice sounds far away and strange in his own ears. The memories crash over him like waves, and it’s like being pulled down to the bottom of the ocean floor…

_So many dark nights. A vacuous cavity in the middle of his being. Can’t be filled. The fire in his blood can’t be quelled. The chaos in his brain can’t be quieted. Blankness. He craves the nothing more than he craves the needle in his arm. Nothing matters. What’s the point? What’s the point…?_

_Then, in that last remaining spark of light, there was a solution all those months ago. An out. And he welcomed it._

“There’s only the respite of darkness in the end for people like us…” Hope brushes the capsule against his mouth.

_Respite. Darkness. No more thinking. Freedom._

Sherlock’s hands shake. He brings the pill to his lips…

_Freedom._

A gunshot rings out from behind him making him drop the pill just as the bullet impacts Hope in the chest before whizzing clean through and shattering the window he was stood by. He crumples with scream and a sickening thud.

Sherlock spins around and is met with a sight he will later recall as being utterly _incandescent_.

There, in the doorway stands Jane, gun at the ready with a curl of smoke rising from the muzzle. Her hair is loose and tossed about her shoulders, catching the light and making it look amber. Her face is set in a hard scowl of fury and her eyes are molten, but her hand is steady and her posture controlled. She practically radiates her own heat like the sun.

She tucks the gun back into her waistband, and darts up to him. She grabs him by the upper arms and gives him a little shake, and he finally realises she’s been trying to talk to him.

“Jane?” he swallows.

“Are you all right?” she asks, obviously for the second time. He snaps out of his daze.

“Of course,” he says hoarsely. Her eyes rove over his face and down to his feet cataloguing and checking for injury. She stiffens when spots the pill on the floor, inhaling sharply. Sherlock crushes it with the heel of his shoe. “Come on,” he says and they rush over to Hope’s side, crimson blood rapidly pooling beneath him.

“The police are on their way,” Jane says with a hardness in her voice as she looks down at Hope.

“A name!” Sherlock demands and crouches over the dying man. “Who is your sponsor?”

“No,” Hope coughs, blood flecking his lips.

“You’re dying! What does it _matter?_ GIVE ME A NAME!” he roars.

“No…”

Jane shoves Sherlock aside. In a flat, calculated voice she says, “You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you.” She takes her foot and presses it into Hope’s shoulder wrenching his chest wound. He screams in agony, and she briefly closes her eyes. “There isn’t time for this. You’re out of time,” she says softly, almost remorsefully. He doesn’t know why, but Sherlock pictures wings sprouting from her back like some sort of avenging angel.

Hope looks up at her through a haze of pain, and a silent understanding seems to pass between them. He closes his eyes.

“ _Moriarty_ …” he whispers. And with one final shuddering exhale, his breathing ceases.

It is the sound of the police sirens in the distance piercing through the thick silence that finally has Sherlock springing back into action. He assesses Jane, and sees that she seems trapped in a different world (the world between here and war; London and Afghanistan) her brow fretted, and her mouth a thin hard line as she continues to stare down at the man she just killed. (A man she shot without a moment’s hesitation. For _him_ of all people.)

“Jane?” Sherlock says softly. He takes her hand. “Come on. We have to go.”

She looks up at him and nods. “I know.”

He pulls her along the corridor until they find a lavatory, and he steers her inside while flicking on the lights. She stands there as he turns on the tap full blast, waiting for it to heat.

“We need to get the powder burns out of your fingers,” he says and pulls her over to the sink. He guides her hands under the stream of warm water. She doesn’t say anything as he works the soap into her knuckles and over her palms. “I don’t suppose you’ll serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case, hm?”

“You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?” she says suddenly, and their eyes meet in the mirror’s reflection.

“Of course I wasn’t,” he says and busies himself with rinsing off the suds. “Just biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

“No that’s not it. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Risking your life to prove that you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” she snorts, and despite himself he barks out a laugh.

“Come on, dry your hands,” he says and tosses her a hand towel. “You’ll have to go around the back, they _cannot_ see you, understand? Ditch the towel in a skip somewhere and go straight back to the flat.”

“What about you?” she says.

“I’ll…tell them something. It’ll be fine,” he says and all but shoves her out into the corridor again. “Go!”

She looks at him one last time, a question in her eyes, but nods and retreats down the long hall, her brisk steps echoing off the walls. He watches until she turns the corner and he can hear the sound of the stair well door closing behind her. Then he makes his way back to the classroom and sits himself on one of the tables and waits.

***

Later, Sherlock is sat in the back of an ambulance, his mind working a mile a minute. One word, one name keeps pounding through his head keeping time with his pulse

_Moriarty. Moriarty._

Who was he? Could the whole ‘arch enemy’ business actually exist? A consulting criminal; his antithesis; his counterpart. The concept was…exhilarating. (Finally something new.)

And then there was Jane…always Jane…an enigma he could never fully puzzle out. It was brilliant.

He was pulled out of his musings when a weight settled around his shoulders, and he looked down to see the hem of an ugly orange blanket.

“Smile!” Lestrade suddenly says appearing out of nowhere. He snaps a photo of him with his phone and the tiny flash causes annoying spots to flood his vision. He sniggers, and Sherlock throws him an askance glare.

“Your victim sensitivity training really was a waste wasn’t it?” Sherlock says, and shrugs off the blanket.

“Coming from the guy who calls himself a sociopath?” Lestrade snorts. Sherlock practically growls when the blanket is put back in place by the paramedic.

“Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?”

“It’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock.”

“Good, then you can tell me what happened,” Lestrade says and pulls out his black notebook.

“I already told you what happened I —”

“Yeah I know what you told me in there,” Lestrade interrupts, “but I want you to tell me what _really_ happened. I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s going on.”

Sherlock stands and looks him in the eye. “There’s nothing else to tell, Inspector. I told you Hope had me a gun point, and I was too distracted to notice the shooter properly before they fled. My back was to the door.”

“Did you know his gun was a novelty cigarette lighter?” Lestrade asks suspiciously.

“Obviously not or I would have left ages ago. The others didn’t seem to notice either,” he says casually.

“See, no. That’s rubbish coming from you. You notice _everything_.”

“Maybe I am in shock then!” Sherlock says, frustrated. “Look! I’ve got a blanket!”

Lestrade goes to say something else before something over Sherlock’s shoulder catches his eye and he stops mid-thought, a small frown furrowing his brow. Sherlock turns to look and he sees Jane standing calmly next to a police cruiser with her hands behind her back. (Stupid, _stupid_. Stubborn — what was she still doing here?)

The DI takes a step in her direction, and without thinking, Sherlock grabs his elbow stopping him.

“Sherlock, what —?” he starts, but Sherlock shakes his head a fraction. The two men stare at each other for a moment until Lestrade’s expression changes from one of confusion to one of dawning realisation. Alarmed, his eyes snap up to where Jane is stood, and then back to Sherlock in horror. “I told you not to involve her, Sherlock. I bloody well told you!” he hisses, rage making his voice shake.

“For your information, Jane does what she wants. She came here of her own volition, and frankly, if it weren’t for her you would still have a serial killer running around,” Sherlock intones. He watches the war play out behind the DI’s eyes, and he says even lower. “And you would have one more body to contend with.” The honesty, he knows will cost him, but he has no choice.

Lestrade opens and closes his mouth a few times as he takes Sherlock’s meaning. Finally, he sighs wearily and pins Sherlock with his most steely gaze.

“Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re going to come down to the station first thing tomorrow and give me a full statement. And then we are never going to mention this again. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Sherlock says and goes to make his way over to Jane.

“Oh and Sherlock,” Lestrade says tucking the notepad back into his jacket. “If ever I think you are endangering her, or using her as some bloody experiment or what have you, I will _end_ our arrangement and slap you with a possession charge so fast your head will spin. Capisce?”

“What ever you say, _Inspector_ ,” Sherlock says baring his teeth, and without anything further crosses the lot.

“Shock?” Jane asks cheerily as she gestures to the orange monstrosity currently doubling as some sort of cape.

“What? God no,” Sherlock says and balls it up and tosses it into the open window of the cruiser. “What happened to ‘go directly back to the flat?’”

“What ever happened, to ‘I need some air, I’ll be right back,’” she returns.

Sherlock huffs a laugh and they set off walking. “Good point,” he concedes, and she hums in agreement. He stops her by the shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Hm? Yes. Of course. Why do you ask?”

“You have just killed a man,” he says. He studies her as she suddenly sobers.

“Yes I…that’s true, isn’t it?” Sherlock doesn’t say anything. For a moment she gets that far away look in her eye again, but then she clears her throat and quirks her lips. “But he wasn’t a very _nice_ man.”

“No, no he wasn’t. And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.”

“Hah! He was a bad cabbie, wasn’t he?” she says and they start walking again in tandem.

“You should have seen the route he took to get us here,” Sherlock grumbles, and Jane starts to laugh that airy laugh that reminds him of golden honey. He can’t help but join in.

“Stop!” she says suddenly as they pass by Sergeant Donovan. She gives them a withering glare. “We can’t giggle at a crime scene, it’s not decent.”

“Decent! Since when do you care about decent? And did you just say ‘giggle?’”

“Why?”

“God you’re such a girl,” Sherlock says rolling his eyes, and she elbows him in the side.

“Berk.”

“Bint.”

“Toss pot.”

“Hungry?”

“Bloody starved,” she says.

“End of Baker Street. There’s a good [Chinese](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021) stays open ‘til two,” he says, and they walk at an easy pace down the block.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Coming soon! I think I am going to make a little aside piece of this main story arc having to do with little bits of domestic fluff. Especially because half the fun is exploring how Jane and Sherlock's dynamic changes due to the fact that she a girl. So from now on I will start linking words like Chinese to this other domestic-y thing...that I am doing. Planning on. Ahem. 
> 
> ** Update! Chapter 1 in Afters up! Chinese is linked.
> 
> Anyways thanks for reading, and I will be working on the redeux of TBB soon!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Study in Partnership](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148620) by [LadyLaran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLaran/pseuds/LadyLaran)




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